


Half Lights of Midnight

by TheosOxonian



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheosOxonian/pseuds/TheosOxonian
Summary: Trapper meets Hawkeye at the airport after he leaves Korea.





	Half Lights of Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This was created years ago for Daisybblue as part of a Mash_Exchange that I think never actually happened. Daisybblue asked for something a bit bittersweet, had no evil Trapper and included the prompt “the train has already gone, would you like to hire a bicycle?”
> 
> I've been rewatching M*A*S*H recently and went back to take a look at my fics and found this one. It's been posted elsewhere and is far from new, but I figured I might as well add it here as well. Because this was written nearly a decade ago, back when I was a mere slip of a thing, it does now seem a bit naive - so please be gentle with it (and me).

It was the turn of the season; the slate blue sea beginning to whip against the Maine shoreline, the sky hanging lower and heavier. Huddled against a corrugated shack on an almost disused airfield, Trapper tugged the windcheater a little tighter around his waist and valiantly tried to believe he felt warmer. He shivered as the chill began to seep up through his boots and contemplated stamping his feet. The movement would at least involve a few muscles, would demand oxygen, make his blood flow a little faster and generate some heat as a by product. Yet it seemed a phenomenal effort for little gain. The only thing that might make him warm would be a couple of laps of the field. Trapper tracked the perimeter fence, eyes narrowing as it tailed away into the distance and thought better of the idea. He wasn’t as young as he once was and certainly not as fit. Besides running around an airfield had to be dangerous. Much better just to stay still, he decided swiftly. 

Behind him the hut door creaked open and then slammed shut, the force reverberating around the shack, sending odd, rhythmic tremors along his arm and leg. Footsteps tramped their way across the cracked concrete and the young lieutenant came to stand at his side, proffering a cup of coffee in gloved hands. Trapper took it with a grateful nod.

“Well if you won’t wait in the hut I figured I’d have to bring the comforts of a well stocked thermos out to you,” he said with a grin.

Trapper returned it and eyed the boy over the rim of the small, plastic mug. Lieutenant Palmer was an affable, blond haired young man who looked a little out of place in his military uniform. His brown eyes were calm and the skin of his face was soft and well cared for. He looked more like an office junior or a secretary, and wouldn’t have looked out of place on the 52 bus. Or in the bars. Trapper let his eyes slide down the boy’s body and then back up to his face, meeting those still composed eyes with the barest shrug.

“Sure you’re in the air force”? Trapper asked, doffing the cup to illustrate his point as he turned away, leaning a shoulder back against the hut, “human decency is not exactly a trait the military possess in spades.”

“Four years,” Palmer confirmed as he tucked his hands behind his back and shifted smoothly into an approximation of the stand to attention.

Trapper glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and noted the defined roll and pitch of the muscles that were visible through the layers of fabric, noted the stomach which was not. “At ease soldier,” he said, with a grin, a hand straying self consciously toward his own midriff, aware he could not longer get away with playing football in just his shorts. “You already had me with the uniform and the hut and jeep. No need to get fresh.” 

Palmer quirked an eyebrow at him, “seeing as I’m the only one with rank around here, I don’t think it’s me being fresh,” he added mildly, his voice smooth and silky, an odd counterpoint to the day and the temperature and the surroundings.

Trapper chortled out loud, “The army only ever had me on loan,” he said, “the day they figured out I’d served my time and saw fit to return me to the land the living I stopped having to even pretend to care about rank. Besides,” he added after taking another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee, “as I’m sure Hawkeye once said, ‘can I help it if I’m not as rank as you’.”

Palmer huffed out a brief laugh, “have to remember that one,” he said, “I didn’t know you were in the army,” he commented his voice suddenly a little sharper. 

“Korea,” Trapper said simply, his eyes scanning the grey sky.

“How long?”

“How long what?” Trapper asked suddenly remarkably uninterested in the conversation, “how long have I been out, how long did I serve? Little over eighteen months for both,” he added in a bored tone, answering his own question and hoping Palmer would take the hint. He wasn’t here for niceties. He was only here for Hawk.

“Doing what?” Palmer asked, evidently deliberately ignoring hint.

“Surgery,”

“Front line?”

Trapper turned his head and stared at the lieutenant. It was conversations like this he hated. Conversations where people were greedy for tales of battles and war wounds and keen to tell him how proud he must feel, or how proud they were, or how they wished they could have been there, wished they could have done something. Yet Palmer’s eye’s weren’t wide with expectation or shadowed with pity.

“MASH,” Trapper admitted after several seconds.

Palmer raised an eyebrow, “like Captain Pierce?” he asked.

Trapper nodded and turned away again, eyes reflexively scanning the horizon. “We served together,” he agreed, wondering why the admission felt like a concession. Trapper stared down at the lukewarm coffee, twisting the cup, tracing the splash and swirl of the liquid. “Surprised they didn’t fill you in,” he said mildly, casting a sideways glance to the lieutenant.

Palmer huffed out a half laugh, “an Air Force aide isn’t exactly high on the pecking order for information,” he pointed out. “We saw the name Houlihan on the order papers and snapped right to attention.”

Trapper turned away and allowed himself a small, self-satisfied grin. “Oh you’re military alright,” he agreed, “act first and ask questions later. Might want to take more of a look at those order papers when you get back to which ever base you came from. I doubt old Howitzer gives a damn about draftee surgeons. His daughter however…”

Trapper glanced sideways and caught the moment Palmer’s lips tightened.

“You served together?” Palmer asked shortly.

Trapper nodded and gazed skyward again.

“Long trip from Boston,” Palmer noted, as he too raised his eyes skyward.

Trapper blinked and tensed.

“That is a Boston accent?” Palmer queried, catching the uncomfortable moment without knowing what had explicitly caused it.

“Yeah,” Trapper agreed curtly.

“Long trip,” Palmer repeated.

“Long police action,” Trapper retorted as they fell into silence, Trapper still swirling the cup, Palmer shifting his feet.

Gradually they became aware of a low hum which blossomed into the sound of twin engines as a dark dot became visible, flying low, clear under the clouds, seeming to only just clear the tree line as it swooped in lower and lower. Trapper drained the cup and handed it back to Palmer. 

“Long time apart,” Palmer noted as their eyes met briefly.

Trapper blinked, the unexpected observation shocking him. “Yeah, yeah it is, he agreed,” as they regarded each other with a wary understanding.

Palmer nodded and turned tail, ducking back around the hut. He returned moments later lacking the cup and having gained his cap which he jammed onto his head and stepped out onto the grass, coming to rest at the edge of the runway, waiting patiently as the plane circled south and aligned herself with the strip of black tarmac.

Trapper was less patient, his foot jiggling back and forth, beating out an uneven rhythm against the hut. He was suddenly aware of the time and space that was between him and Hawkeye, Palmer’s words were ringing in this head and Margaret’s letter was shoved hastily into the glove box of his car. Long time apart. Damn long time apart.

The plane was clearly visible now, a narrow little two seater affair in the same dull, tasteless green that decorated all military vehicles, its two occupants clad in a similar hue. Trapper continued to watch as it descended more or less smoothly, and unable to turn his head away he found himself holding his breath as she lurched for one last time, the wheels touching the tarmac, bouncing several times before the plane taxied to a stop.

Trapper hung back, watching as the lieutenant scurried toward the plane and unbuckled its passenger, easing him down onto the runway and then guiding him around the plane and across the tarmac, keeping Hawkeye’s head low and out of the way of the propellers. Something like nostalgia burst over him at the sight and he remembered the thousands of times he’d unloaded casualties from the bubble helicopters, the whip of blades pounding a dull beat above his head. The same dull beat of the bi-plane’s propellers that thrummed through the quiet Maine day and caused his heart to beat quick and heavy.

As they approached the corrugated hut Palmer eased his hold of Hawkeye and he first raised his head cautiously, and then more surely as Palmer yelled something to him and stepped away. He glanced around quickly, expectantly and his shoulders dropped briefly as he found no one his recognised. Though in the next instant he was walking proud again, throwing a quip or comment to Palmer as he struggled out of his flight helmet. Trapper stepped out from the shelter of the hut and watched as Hawkeye’s eye was drawn to the movement. It took a couple of seconds for Hawkeye to register his presence but then a look of shock slammed onto his face and he stopped, stock still, the helmet swinging limply in his hands.

Away to the side the plane’s propellers were winding down to a low stutter, but Trapper’s heart was still hammering ten to the dozen, remembering a forgotten beat, aware of nothing around him but the shape and sight of Hawkeye; dishevelled, and grey and weary, but still Hawkeye. He felt a lump gather in his throat and he swallowed reflexively, willing tears away as he raised a hand to his lips. And so they remained. Trapper watched as Palmer’s lips moved and he said something to Hawkeye, whatever was said causing Hawkeye to rock forward. He took a half, abortive step before halting again.

The helmet in his hand resumed a rocking motion and Hawkeye jumped as his attention was dragged downward. Fumbling with the unwieldy equipment he worried at the straps of the goggles, seemingly fascinated by their buckles. Trapper was close enough to read the expression on Hawkeye’s face and he felt his stomach churn at its schooled blankness. 

_Hawkeye could do with a friend._

Trapper took a deep breath and walked forward, it seeming somehow right that he be the one to make the move. Hawkeye remained still for another second or so, and then, shrugging his kit bag more firmly onto his shoulder, he too was walking forward. Trapper upped his pace, and only Palmer’s presence stopped him from obeying the impulse to run. He paused as he came to rest in front of Hawkeye, reaching for him. A sudden fear gripped him and he was sure that Hawkeye would just ignore him; like he had ignored Hawkeye for the last year and half. But then Hawk offered up a shaky, relieved smile and there they were, arms wrapped around each other, Trapper’s face pressed into Hawkeye’s neck, Hawkeye’s breath loud and lovely against his ear. Trapper squeezed harder, feeling Hawkeye respond, holding him tight until his muscles began to protest the effort. 

Pulling away he stared at Hawkeye and felt his anxiety dissipate. Hawk’s hair was limp, flattened by the helmet, but his cheeks and eyes were bright, stung into colour by the wind and the tears that were brimming.

Trapper pulled him close again, the lump back in his own throat as he pressed his cheek against Hawkeye’s, keen to remind himself just how good this felt. “Jesus I missed you,” he whispered, the months apart slamming into him hard and brutal, and he felt the run of hot, salty tears against his face. Hawkeye’s skin slid against his own in an answering nod and Trapper sighed, his body relaxing as the pent up emotion he’d been holding in since Margaret’s letter arrived slipped right away. Dipping his head he pressed a fleeting, clumsy kiss to Hawkeye’s neck before wriggling free and standing awkwardly in front of his friend, swiping roughly at his eyes.

Away to the side a flash of blue caught their attention and Palmer approached, eyeing them with a detached interest.

“I trust you had a pleasant flight, sir,” he said as he held out his hand, fingers gesturing ever so obliquely to the helmet and goggles.

“Right,” Hawkeye agreed as he handed the equipment over, and Trapper found himself smiling just at the sound of Hawkeye’s voice, its tone and timbre resonating deep within him, a long forgotten warmth flowing out across his body. “Can’t say I’d ever choose a military bi-plane as a method of transportation again, but it could have been worse; I’ve travelled by ox,” he added conspiratorially.

“Yes sir,” Palmer agreed politely. “Good luck,” he added as he took his leave, his eyes deliberately seeking out Trapper’s, the stare making him even more uncomfortable. Trapper wiped his hands on the seat of his pants and risked a glance upward. Hawkeye caught his gaze and gave a brief, almost shy smile.

“I’ve erm…got the car, if you want a lift,” Trapper offered.

More sure of himself by the minute Hawkeye glanced around the airfield, seeming to really take note of his surroundings. He took in a long, deep breath as he caught sight of the sea on the far horizon and a smile gradually dawned on his face, a deep, calm joy settling over him. Trapper felt the same joy, bubble up within him and he took a step toward Hawkeye, bumping his shoulder with his own as he stepped up to his side. Hawk turned to him and suddenly that same joy was focussed on him and him alone, the intensity stealing his breath.

The regarded each other in silence, their eyes sliding over the other’s face, not quite able to meet, the moment lengthening between them. Hawkeye let his gaze roam over Trapper’s body, taking in the familiar form in unfamiliar clothes; blue jeans and a bright red hunting jacket. Lifting his arm he touched a hand to Trapper’s own, fingers ghosting across the thick fabric, rubbing at its pill, searching out the shape beneath, only pausing as the palm of his hand moulded itself perfectly to the curve of an elbow. A shiver ran through Hawkeye’s body and he twisted quickly away, turning back to the land and her sea beyond, resisting the impulse the pull Trapper close to him once again, a little overwhelmed by the sudden rush of need that flooded through him.

“I’m guessing the Boston-Maine Railroad doesn’t come up this way,” he offered, his voice low and a little shaky.

“And it’s a fair wait for a Greyhound,” Trapper noted, his voice carefully schooled, the sound odd, strained and so unlike the man Hawk remembered.

“Then I’ll take the lift,” Hawkeye agreed with a fleeting, brittle grin as he set off across the grass, the moment between them vanishing in the wind. Trapper set off half a pace later with a bemused, reluctant grin of his own, because Hawkeye had no idea where the car was parked, but here he was, striding off into the distance, forging right ahead and expecting everyone else to follow. And so Trapper did, jogging a couple of steps to bring himself level.

Hawkeye continued on in silence, keenly aware of his surroundings, of the land before him and the man beside him. He sniffed excitedly at the air, taking in lungfuls of the cool, wet day, revelling in its banal beauty. Beneath his feet the grass was lush and bore no resemblance to the dry, patchy tufts that marked a Korean summer. The sour smell of fog lingered in the air and all around the gentle greens and browns of a Maine morning gave his heart rest. 

Two days of travelling hadn’t stopped him waking up this morning expecting his bunk and the sight of BJ’s socks strewn across the floor. He was still on alert, expecting the cry of ‘choppers’ at any moment, snatches of O club discs echoing over and over in his mind, and he felt disjoined, as though his head and body were in two different planes, one running to catch up with the other. 

A hand on his arm startled him and he instinctively jerked away, staring in confusion as Trapper reached for him once again, the touch sure and deft, the exemplar of a good bedside manner.

“Car’s this way,” Trapper said, simply and easily taking over their progress, leading them toward an old blue Ford. Hawkeye shook his head, trying to clear his mind as Trapper fumbled in the deep pocket of his jacket, rummaging until his fingers closed around the keys. Unlocking the boot he thrust the keys into his jeans and then placed both hands on the car, shoving the boot upward with a grunt.

“Lock’s never been right since Louise backed it into the gate post,” Trapper explained as he caught Hawkeye’s blank look, reading into the look a question that Hawkeye hadn’t been aware was there.

Hawkeye glanced up at the trunk, noticing the dent which was punched into the panel, the mention of Trapper’s wife momentarily causing his stomach to curl inward. _Louise_ , once little more than a flowing name on the bottom of letters was suddenly real, tangible and Hawkeye felt a little of his relief slip away. 

“You could get it fixed,” Hawkeye said as he gradually realised he was expected to say something. He peered at the lock, staring down at the metal without really seeing it, finding focussing on the car easier than focussing on Trapper.

“Could,” Trapper agreed as he bent over and joined in Hawkeye’s impromptu inspection, “but it’s less fun that way.”

Hawkeye nodded and silence stretched out between them. Away in the distance a car hushed past, the sound rising and dying on the morning air. “You know anything about trunk locks on ’48 Fords?” Trapper asked after a moment, still continuing to stare down at the lock. Tension was growing between them, lengthening, stretching out, thrumming and humming around them until Trapper felt almost giddy.

“Nope. You?” Hawkeye asked stiffly.

“Nothing,” Trapper agreed. He glanced sideways and caught Hawkeye’s eye, offering up an awkward, half smile. Hawkeye reflexively returned it, the gesture flowing between them until the air felt halfway comfortable, both eager to grab hold of anything that felt normal between them.

“So there’s nothing to be gained by standing here?” Trapper asked.

“Nope,” Hawkeye agreed a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“But we’re going to keep doing it anyway?” Trapper clarified. 

“Seems so,” Hawkeye agreed, a grin breaking out on both their faces at the familiar feel of friendship and absurdity.

Reaching above his head Hawkeye prodded the catch of the lock, grimacing at the oil he found on his fingers when he finished. Turning back to the trunk he glared at the rest of the mechanism.

“Well the catch feels okay,” he observed, “must be that one of the things in there is bent.”

Trapper nodded sagely, “you sure on that?” he asked, “sounds like a bit of a technical explanation.”

Swinging his pack into the trunk Hawkeye tapped the lock for a final time. “Definitely a thing,” he confirmed, “might even be a whatdymacallit.”

Trapper grinned and leaned into the trunk, shoving Hawkeye’s pack more deeply into the space, tossing the small hand held bag in front of it. “I’m guessing this is why we’re surgeons and not mechanics,” Trapper observed. “Probably for the best, if they’d drafted us as mechanics we’d have found ourselves much closer to the front lines. Possibly even tinkering around with heavy artillery.”

Beside him Hawkeye tensed, “Yeah, like tanks,” he agreed, a distinct edge to his voice.

Trapper glanced sharply at him, but let the comment pass without note, not wanting to shatter the fragile, neutral calm growing between them. Shutting the trunk he made to move away, heading round to the driver’s door, expecting Hawkeye to follow. Yet Hawk remained still, one hand resting gently against the car frame, the other clenched tight around fabric of his pants.

“Hawk?” Trapper asked, a sliver of worry sliding into his gut as he took in the suddenly haunted expression on Hawkeye’s face. “Hawk?” he tried again, taking a step back toward him, easing himself into his personal space. Hawkeye’s eyes flickered and he turned his head toward Trapper, struggling to focus, his lips moving reflexively as he tried to find words.

Trapper’s heart dipped all the way to his stomach as he recognised the expression. He’d seen it a thousand times in Korea, on the faces of the walking wounded, the ones who’d picked themselves up off the line and stumbled to the aid stations, fit enough to walk, unumbed by morphine or unconsciousness. Fit enough to see the dead and dying, the adrenaline sparking around their bodies only making the casual brutality that much sharper and clearer. It had always struck him as a cruel kind of irony that the body’s survival mechanism harmed the mind quite so damn much.

“Okay,” Trapper sighed as he wrapped his arms around Hawkeye’s waist, pulling him into a loose embrace, needing to feel Hawkeye, needing to offer this comfort, not knowing if Hawkeye would even accept it. Yet Hawkeye’s arms came up to hold him, his feet shifting slightly until their bodies slid together, Trapper’s back against the car, Hawkeye against his front.

Pressing forward Hawkeye dropped his head to Trapper’s shoulder, his body falling forward, gladly succumbing to the momentary respite offered to him, the feel of Trapper’s body at once strange and familiar; just like everything he’d encountered since returning home. One of Trapper’s hands found it’s way to his head, cupping him firmly, his fingers stroking their way through his hair. Hawkeye sighed as a deep calm pressed down on him, willing him forward, pushing him deeper into Trapper’s arms, urging him closer. Trapper shifted beneath him, loosing his grip, yet Hawkeye remained still, loath to leave the warm, soft comfort of another’s body; of this body. Trapper’s hand slid to his shoulders, and then fell forward, firm pressure against his arms easing him away. Hawkeye separated reluctantly and felt a wave of loss flow over him as Trapper walked away and pulled open the driver’s door, slipping into the seat without a backward glance.

He walked heavily toward the passenger side, stumbling a little as his foot hit a tuft of dense grass. Unbidden, memories flowed over him, and an almost forgotten ache settled in his chest, the loss of Trapper suddenly feeling as raw as it had all those months ago.

Hawkeye slammed his door shut and Trapper fired up the engine, easing the car into gear as they bumped and banged across the airfield, the wheels seeming to find every divot and ditch possible. Passing through the open bar-gate the grass gave way to a rough mud track and soon they were facing the road junction. Trapper shifted the car into neutral and let the engine idle.

“Where do you want to go?” Trapper asked, turning toward Hawkeye.

Hawkeye blinked and turned to face him, his mouth partly open. The question struck him as absurdly difficult to answer and he searched for words, struggling to ease his mind from its memories. He turned away, eyes scanning desperately across the horizon as he took in the hills and pines before him and found his mind full of nothing; nothing but the sight of reeling, rolling deep greens and browns. He shook his head briefly, as though to clear it, and, turning to Trapper tried again. Beside him, Trapper dipped his head in rueful acknowledgment.

“I know,” he said with a quick sigh, “everywhere, right? Just as soon as you find the energy.”

Hawkeye swallowed hard and nodded quickly, his eyes a little damp as he turned back to Trapper, searching out his face, seeking something that neither of them were too clear on.

“We could go get some food?” Trapper offered, “or I could take you home?” He paused at the mention of home and Hawkeye’s eyes skittered toward the sea, regarding it for several long moments. Home. Home and hearth. Home and hearth and fresh coffee and his own bed. The front hall with it’s lining of cheap, naive little seascapes and the cousins and family and his dad. Hid dad, who was expecting his son home, whole and hearty. Hawkeye turned back to Trapper, shaking his head, a cloying sense of claustrophobia seeping over him as the enormity of retuning began to gradually dawn.

“I don’t know,” he said, again lost for words, the synapses in his head stuttering to a dead halt, sentences refusing to form. He sighed and took in a long breath. 

“Too much, right now?” Trapper suggested.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed, “It’s like being at the bottom of a well, you know, having everything refracting toward you. I mean I want to see Dad...”

He trailed off and Trapper nodded, understanding the feeling, understanding the impulse to hide away, remembering how he’d spent nigh on a month living in a bottle and his study, not quite able to face Louise and the life that needed rebuilding.

“There’s a motel down the road,” Trapper offered, “you could get a few hours kip, I brought clothes, something might fit you; be a chance to get out of your fatigues?”

Hawkeye glanced down at himself and shook his head in bemusement. “Guess it looks pretty strange to you now,” he said, “I don’t even notice them anymore, got too used to it.”

“You’ll get used to civvies soon enough,” Trapper assured him.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed, a little distractedly, the word drawing out between them. Then he shifted in his seat, holding his back a little more rigid. “Motel,” he declared.

Trapper sucked in a breath of surprise and he sought out Hawkeye’s eyes, scanning them carefully as the atmosphere in the car edged up a notch. “You sure?” he asked.

Hawkeye nodded, the gesture small, confident and contained. Then he turned away again, drawn to the tableau of landscape outside the window. “Drive on,” he commanded in his best mock English accent, waving his hand vaguely forward.

Trapper paused, cocked his head and gazed through the windscreen, looking out at the agri-land that lined the highway and the field that lay opposite. “Well, it’s a pretty field,” he agreed, “I’m not sure it’s any prettier than the rest out here, but if you want to see it close up…who am I to argue.”

Hawkeye smiled, “you’re the guy with his foot on the accelerator,” he observed dryly as he gestured right with his arm, correcting his earlier instruction, lightly swatting Trapper in the process. 

“Well so I am,” Trapper agreed as he thrust the car into gear and turned smoothly onto the highway, easing the car away from the glimmering coast and heading deeper into the land.

A silence descended around them. Hawkeye lounged against the door, shoulder thrown back against the pane of the window, body angled toward Trapper.

“Good to see you,” Hawkeye eventually offered.

Trapper glanced quickly toward him before dragging his eyes back to the road. Sure of their safety he risked a second, longer glance, taking in the long sweep of Hawkeye’s body as it lay languid and seemingly at peace. Only his left foot tapping against the frame suggested his unease; a staccato little rhythm, three beats and then two, three beats and then two, repeating over and over.

Before them the road lay clear and straight, telegraph poles lining its edges at regular intervals, flowing through Trapper’s line of sight until they vanished, past the edge of his vision and out into his blind spot.

“Good to see you too,” he offered, shocked at the sheer banality of his words, at how little of his true meaning they managed to express.

Hawkeye nodded and turned his head to stare out of the window.

Trapper drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel as he scanned his mind for conversation topics, dismissing one after the other in quick succession. Talking about getting home was clearly too raw; trying to discuss the pennant or football would be too one sided; talking about his kids was a hiding to nothing; the weather was too desperate. With a growing sense of horror Trapper realised that the only thing they had left in common was a long list of dead and wounded patients. Palmer was right. Damn long time apart.

“How’s Radar?” Trapper blurted out.

Hawkeye twitched a little, his foot momentarily stilling. “Okay,” he offered. “Home. Got a compassionate discharge after his Uncle Ed died. Went to help run the farm.”

Trapper sucked in a long, low breath. “Klinger?” he asked.

Hawkeye shrugged, “still there I guess. He married a Korean girl, she wants to find her family. Charles reckons he’ll end up running the country.” 

“Charles?” Trapper queried.

“Frank’s replacement,” Hawkeye responded.

“How’s Frank?” Trapper asked, aware of the absurdity of the question.

“Went mad,” Hawkeye said simply.

The silence descended again, the tapping of Hawkeye’s foot a brittle, rapid overtone. Outside the telegraph poles were flying past, racketing through Trapper’s field over vision one after another, after another, after another. His heart was hammering hard in his chest again and his stomach was one large, tense knot. Easing his foot off the accelerator Trapper let out a long, slow breath and glanced over at Hawkeye.

“Frank went mad?” he asked incredulously.

A grin graced Hawkeye’s face, his eyes shining brighter for just a moment, “Section eight all the way to Indiana,” he agreed. He glanced over at Trapper and could see the question in his eyes, long before it reached his lips. And for a second it felt familiar, felt right. Felt right to be sitting close to Trapper. Felt good to feel that old connection. His stomach tightened, groin following half a heart beat later and he allowed himself a wry, indulgent smile.

“Margaret finished with him,” Hawkeye continued. “He didn’t take it well. Potter sent him on R&R and he never came back. Last we heard he was chasing blonde women down the Ginsa. Finally he understands how to have a good time and they send him home in a straight jacket.”

“Wow, Trapper observed, unsure of what else to say. “He was always so…contained, so sure of himself.”

Hawkeye shook his head. “He lost his anchor,” he said, his eyes scanning across Trapper’s face, watching the movements of his jaw as he searched for words. Only Trapper remained silent and Hawkeye felt oddly grateful that he had no comeback. 

The silence between them now was not altogether comfortable, each too aware of the other, of the rise and fall of their breathing, of the movement of Trapper’s hands on the steering wheel and gear stick, of the reflexive twitch in Hawkeye’s leg or the sweep of his still long hair. And an edgy, brittle anticipation filled the car, bounding back from its metal frame until the air inside hung as heavy as the day and Hawkeye was more than aware of his laboured breathing. He drummed his fingers against his leg, picking up that same, disjointed rhythm and tried not to think about Trapper. Tried not to think about reaching across the divide between them and resting his hand on Trapper’s leg, stroking along the seam of his jeans, fingers ticking the inside of his thigh. Tried not to remember the way Trap looked when he did, his eyes unfocussed, the pain and drudgery of mud and men and mess tent food, simply falling away from him. Tried not to remember that Trapper was once his. Shoving his hand into his pocket he dragged his eyes away, staring out at the passing scenery. _War’s over Hawk _, he reminded himself, _war’s over___. His eyes slid back to Trapper and he took in his face, the slide and tuck of his nose, the bushy bold eyebrows and the almost delicately blond lashes beneath, the line of chin, neck, chest. He turned away again, the hand in his pocketing tightening painfully as a rush of emotion slammed into him, love and desire and resentment all rolled up into one. 

He bit down hard on his lip as a rush of memories followed; Trapper in bloodied scrubs, tired and drained and beat, leaning against the door of OR; Trapper under the lights of the Ginsa, glowing red then green then yellow beneath their neon glow; Trapper curled against his side in the half-light of midnight; Trapper…just Trap. He gasped as a wave of sadness broke over him and he pulled his hand from his pocket, sliding it across the space between them until his fingertips connected with fabric, grasping blindly at an arm, needing to feel, something, anything.

Trapper tensed at the contact and hissed in a long, low breath as Hawkeye’s hand continued its journey, down the curve of his waist and then up and over the curve of his leg until it rested comfortably. Trapper’s eyes flickered downward, then back to the road and he gradually relaxed back into his seat, accepting the touch. Hawkeye relaxed as he did, easing back into his seat, even as the atmosphere pulsed harder around them.

Five minutes later Hawkeye saw the sign of a motel crest up over the horizon and Trapper slowed the car, turning into the entranceway and heading past the desk, driving slowly along the line of cabins that ran parallel with the highway. As they neared the tree line that signalled the end of the drive Trapper slowed the car and brought it to a halt outside the final cabin. Turning the engine off he sank back in his seat. Hawkeye removed his hand, the gesture slow, his fingers lingering as they swept across the fabric.

“Already checked in?” Hawkeye asked, his voice silky and little dangerous.

Trapper shivered and glanced over at Hawkeye as he nodded, both acutely aware this was suddenly no longer about cat naps and a change of clothes.

Hawkeye met Trapper’s eyes and for long moment they simply stared at each other. Hawk, too used to living on instinct and nerve endings, found the moment odd, uncomfortable and he laughed as he broke Trapper’s gaze. 

“You knew I’d come,” he commented lightly, carefully ignoring the unease which settled over him as his laughter died away, twisting the feeling until it was nothing more than an unspecified desire for something more, something better.

“Hoped,” Trapper corrected as he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, fishing in his pocket for the cabin key. Hawkeye shook his head and followed him out, pushing through the door just as Trapper had opened it.

He paused once inside and leant back against the wall, watching as Trapper walked to the centre, standing awkwardly in front of the bed. He slipped the car keys into the pocket of his windcheater and then tugged at the zip, discarding it toward the foot of the bed, a sleeve draping untidily onto the floor. Beneath he wore a thick fawn roll neck jumper and Hawkeye couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it.

“Got your dog tags and that tasteless Hawaiian shirt under there as well?” he asked.

Trapper turned around and sat down on the bed. He stared across at Hawkeye, his eyes rolling up and down his body, lingering a little here and there, feeling his heart begin to beat faster. “Going to come over here and find out?” Trapper asked, letting his growing desire and need show on his face.

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow and smiled not altogether kindly, “now that look I’d forgotten,” he said as he pushed himself away from the wall and came to stand in front of Trapper. He stood expectantly, hands twitching, before he reached forward and grasped the base of Trapper’s jumper, tugging it over his head in a bold move. Beneath it Trapper wore a loose white shirt and his skin, pale after months of shuttling between cars and hospitals and home, seemed sallow against its shade.

Spreading his legs Trapper reached up and pulled Hawkeye closer, hands around his waist. An old, familiar scent assaulted him and he pressed his face to Hawkeye’s stomach, breathing deeply, taking in the mix of detergent and sweat and grime. Pushing the fabric away he pressed a kiss to Hawkeye’s stomach. “You never got to see it that often,” he pointed out.

Hawkeye lifted his hands from where they lay on Trapper’s shoulders and stroked them across his head, fingers sifting through the curls of his hair. Trapper pressed himself firmly against Hawkeye, swaying against him, rubbing his forehead against the base of Hawk’s ribs, back and forth until they were rocking against each other, taking comfort from the rhythm. 

Trapper sighed, his breath ghosting across Hawkeye’s skin, tickling the fine hairs of his stomach, causing him to shiver as goosebumps broke out over his body. Hawkeye’s fingers tightened in Trapper’s hair and Trap arched upward, eyes seeking Hawkeye’s as a keen, desperate arousal broke over them. Pushing Trapper backward Hawkeye shoved at his shoulder, pressing him down into the mattress as he crawled onto the bed, manoeuvring himself until he towered over Trapper.

The blood was pounding through his head, a sharp, rhythmic blast of heat against his temples, the kind of heat that stopped every last thought and handed him over to only instinct. Dipping his head he made to kiss Trapper, surprised as he reared up, bringing their mouths together in a rushed, messy joining that felt most way perfect. Trapper still kissed like his lived his life, full and fast and greedily taking what he wanted. And Hawkeye was just as fierce. One hand gripped the back of Trapper’s head, tilting and twisting him until the angle was just right and he could drink his fill. His other hand twisted tight into Trapper’s shirt, pulling until its buttons were straining against his chest.

“Fuck I missed you,” Trapper said as his hands reached for those buttons. His voice was low and intense and just a little ragged. Hawkeye batted his hands away and made short work of Trapper’s shirt, eagerly pushing the fabric away, wanting nothing more in that instant than to feel Trapper’s skin beneath his own. He pressed his hands against Trapper’s chest and stilled, mesmerised by the smooth warmth and the sight of his tanned hands against the white skin.

“Oh,” he intoned, the sound brittle and broken as he glanced upward and found Trapper’s brown eyes regarding him fondly; and in just that moment it too much to take. Hawkeye rose to his knees and pulled Trapper with him, crushing their mouths together as he shed his own shirt, their tongues duelling, battling, never tiring of the taste and touch of the other.

Still kneeling, Hawkeye reached for the buttons of Trapper’s trousers, eager for the feel of what lay within, a long, satisfied sigh escaping him as he wrapped his hand around Trapper’s cock, drawing his loose grasp from base to tip. Trapper’s head dropped to Hawk’s shoulder and he shivered, thrusting instinctively forward, his trousers falling to his knees, leaving him feeling faintly ridiculous; shoes still on, trousers at half-mast, shorts at quarter-mast and arching into Hawkeye’s touch, begging with all but words.

Unwilling to raise his head Trapper pressed forward, dotting uneven, hasty kisses against Hawkeye’s skin, eagerly reacquainting himself with the taste of the body beneath his own. Hawkeye was sighing and moaning at his touch and yet the sounds were muted, distant, nothing like he remembered and it seemed to Trapper to be part of some half remembered dream, all echoes and impressions and intangible nuance.

Reaching for Hawkeye’s fly he fumbled with its buttons, shoving his pants and boxers down as soon as it was possible. He reached for Hawkeye, his mouth falling open as his fingers encountered the smooth silky heat, halting nervously as they closed around the shaft. He pressed a kiss to Hawkeye’s too prominent clavicle, then another to his neck feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath, his fingers remaining motionless. He let himself linger, tongue drawing a lazy line to his ear, another kiss pressed to the soft skin behind.

Hawkeye shifted impatiently against him, reaching for his hand and drawing it away from his cock. Trapper started to protest, feeling the loss as keenly as Hawkeye must, but the words died on his lips as Hawkeye laced their fingers together, aligning their bodies so that they slid against each other, held by their combined hands. It had been a favourite technique once upon a time, when the hotels of Seoul and Tokyo had sequestered them far away from prying eyes and a ceaseless war. And now they were together again, each thrusting up against the other, rocking together. The friction of dry skin was painful and not a little raw, but neither man paid it much mind, focussed only on the sliding, growing pleasure. Trapper ran his free hand over Hawkeye’s hip, reaching around to cup his ass, squeezing and kneading for just a moment before continuing his path along the length of Hawkeye’s thigh, pausing to stroke the soft underside of his knee, adoring the keening sound it drew from Hawkeye’s mouth.

Dimly Hawkeye was aware that it wasn’t supposed to be like this, that Trapper shouldn’t have remembered those sensitive spots and they shouldn’t have unwound quite so fast and so hard. Yet with his bones fast turning to water and his orgasm boiling up, burning and sparking against every nerve end, his muscles trembling and twitching with the strain, it was hard to remember why. Hard to feel anything through the hazy heat that clouded his mind, anything except the knowledge that this was right and good and just where he belonged.

He could feel the flow of blood in Trapper’s cock, the swell and surge that always preceded his climax and in the aching, hovering heartbeat before the pulse of Trapper’s release sparked his own there was nothing but an echoing, peaceful joy.

The moment of his climax took him by surprise and he cried out, his body arcing forward, following the sensation, seeking out its last vestige before his legs finally gave way and he fell back onto the bed, letting out one long whoosh of breath.

Trapper followed his movement, landing heavily against his chest, only a deftly placed elbow saving the moment from being more painful. Trapper’s fingers trailed idly along the line of Hawkeye’s thigh and their breathing, hard and harsh in the stillness soon gave way to a quieter contentment. Rolling away from Hawkeye Trapper toed off his shoes, kicking them to the floor, the thud of each a dull, dense sound. Sitting up he pulled his shorts up and his pants down, dropping them to the floor as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His back glistened with a light sheen of sweat and Hawkeye reached out to touch it, fingers rubbing along the nodules of his spine. Trapper cast a glance over his shoulder, his breath catching as he took in the sight of Hawk, and Hawkeye felt himself blush, the reality of half shed clothing and sticky, cooling skin seeming suddenly distasteful. 

Trapper must have felt it too, because he levered himself upward and headed toward a door Hawkeye hadn’t noticed before. Trapper shut the door behind him, the click barely echoing as the sound of the extractor fan began its monotone whirr. Still blushing, Hawkeye cleaned himself off as best he could with a tissue which he retrieved from the pocket of his pants. Then, repeating Trapper’s actions, he undressed quickly, dropping the clothes carelessly to the floor. Suddenly uncomfortable in his nakedness he contemplated retrieving his boxers, but a movement from within the bathroom halted the thought and instead he scrambled beneath the bedclothes. The touch of the sheets was cool against his skin and he was still shivering when Trapper emerged from the bathroom and ambled toward the bed. He stopped just short of it and bent down to rummage through his bag, retrieving a battered pack of cigarettes; a habit he’d taken up simply because it was something to do, something that wasn’t the echoing silence of a rented room. Tapping one out he shoved it into his mouth and then went in search of a lighter. The dry flare of the cigarette was loud and turned away from Hawkeye Trapper missed the grimace that decorated his face.

“Must you?” Hawkeye asked as the smoke began to curl upward, seeking it’s own path around the room, idling toward the stained ceiling tiles.

Trapper took a long drag of the cigarette before removing it from his mouth with a gentle shake of his head. “No,” he agreed, stubbing it out on one of the thin metal ashtrays that adorned each night stand. Trapper turned away again, this time taking the two steps required to reach the window, tugging the curtains closed. He glanced back at Hawkeye and saw fear spark in his eyes, both recognising the belated movement for the mistake it was. Then, nothing else left to do, he returned to the bed, slipping gingerly beneath the covers, sitting back against the pillows, painfully aware of Hawkeye’s body so close to his own. It wasn’t an unknown situation, but it was unusual. Their times together in camp had always been furtive; their joinings fast and furious, sandwiched in between OR sessions and dates with nurses. And the times in Tokyo he could count on one hand; the memories swimmy, fractured little snippets of bars and booze and far fewer broads than their tales suggested.

Beside him Hawkeye felt his eyes grow heavy, sleep dulling his senses, thoughts blurring at their edges. The sheets were still cool around him and he yearned to be close to Trapper, to feel the long endless line of his skin pressed casually against him. Instead he wrapped an arm around his own waist and sank further into the pillow. It was a battered old thing and its feather filling was thin to say the least, but after three years of army cots it felt like heaven. 

“Going to sleep on me?” Trapper asked.

“Yeah, think so,” Hawkeye agreed, his voice thick and clogged with a fatigue he’d been battling for days.

“’Kay,” Trapper said, giving his consent to the intention. Then he too settled down into the bed, pressing a quick, easy kiss to Hawkeye’s lips. Startled by the unexpected contact Hawkeye responded slowly, his lips opening in time to catch the stale, lingering taste of cigarettes. Hating the taste but loving the feel of Trapper’s kiss Hawkeye initially pressed forward, then stalled. Trapper let out a short, knowing sigh and pressed another kiss to Hawkeye’s forehead, letting his lips linger in some half apology before rolling away.

* * *

It was dark when Hawkeye eventually stirred. The room was still, silent and a single shaft of light speared in from outside, picking out an unerring path over the cheap, synthetic carpet only petering out as it rose over the bathroom door.

Hawkeye struggled toward consciousness, the surroundings too unfamiliar to reassure him and for a long, heart stopping moment he found himself reaching for the half filled plastic water glass that had always been beside his bed at the psych hospital. The relief when his hand collided with only a cheap lamp was overwhelming, his heart starting again with a heady rush, his breath coming in short, sharp little pants.

Rolling onto his back he stared up at the ceiling as he calmed himself further, taking in slow, controlled breaths, carefully turning away all the thoughts and memories of the war that were pushing at his conscious mind, ceaselessly drilling away, keen to make their presence known. 

Beside him Trapper’s breathing was quiet and slow and Hawkeye’s own stirrings hadn’t disturbed him. He now lay on top of the covers, a paperback novel with a lurid cover rested limply against the bedclothes and Hawkeye realised that he must have woken earlier. He was dressed in only a pair of jeans which were half buttoned, the fly hanging partly open, no sign of underwear beneath.

A nebulous sense of unease still clung to Hawkeye’s mind and the sight of Trapper was a balm in itself. Taking the book and placing it on his own nightstand Hawkeye slipped out of the covers and lay back down on top of them, the woollen blanket prickling his skin as he eased himself next to Trapper, finally obeying the earlier impulse to seek out skin on skin. He gave himself no time to contemplate what he was doing, afraid that if he lingered too long in the thinking, fear or pride or uncertainty would make the decision for him.

Instead he pressed his lips to Trapper’s arm, rubbing himself against the soft, scented skin. He drew in a long, slow breath and revelled in the feeling of having his lover close, comforted by the sight and scent of Trapper, comforted to be able to touch and have and hold.

He ran an idle finger over Trapper’s stomach. The skin, with its coating of fine hairs, was soft and rounded and seemed to tell of a satisfied life. Some part of him was all too aware of the transitory nature of this moment, of their time together. This was just one short point in time, a brief pause as he travelled from one state to another, from war to peace, from going away to coming home. And whilst that part of his mind was reminding him of the pain that inevitably followed each every time pleasure gave way to absence, the larger part of him was drifting contentedly toward a warm, nostalgic love; keen to remember the times they’d lain fully clothed beneath damp, chilled blankets, huddled together, entertaining each other through the long, sleepless nights, idle schemes and quite fantastical visions of the future flowing between them. And though he’d never dared to vocalise it, Hawkeye had occasionally contemplated a life with Trap that wasn’t punctured and shell ridden, and in weaker moments he’d imagined that he could see the same desire reflected in Trapper’s eyes. Though nothing he’d ever contemplated involved cheap, somewhat shoddy motels. Tokyo hotels had been more than enough for a lifetime. Shifting a little to his side Hawkeye draped an arm across Trapper’s chest, hugging him closer still. At the movement Trapper’s breathing suddenly quickened and his eyes flickered open.

He glanced down, the confusion obvious in his face and Hawkeye felt oddly guilty, like the child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, greedily reaching for something that wasn’t his to take. He rolled away, closing his eyes, scrunching them tight as if to deny the look he’d just seen on Trapper’s face.

Trapper reached across the bed, a hand connecting clumsily with his shoulder. “Hey,” he said sleepily.

“Hey,” Hawkeye agreed as he slipped out of bed, searching the floor for his trousers. Only when they were safely buttoned and buckled did he turn around and let himself gaze at Trapper, momentarily entranced by the sight of his friend, sprawled languidly across the bed, a long arm stretched over the pillows, hair tousled. He offered a soft smile in return and allowed himself to linger.

“What time is it?” Trapper demanded with a light yawn.

Hawkeye glanced at his wrist but found it lacking its usual watch. He glanced at his nightstand, already knowing it wasn’t there, his eyes finally finding the timepiece resting on Trapper’s, lying next to a large, silver one.

“Don’t know, you appear to have my watch,” he observed, “and yours.”

“Good point,” Trapper agreed as he thrust a hand blindly backward, searching until he was able to snag the watch. Glancing down at its face he tossed it toward Hawkeye, rolling over onto his stomach. It landed on the edge of the coverlet and Hawk reached down to take it before moving to sit on the end of the bed as he fastened it around his wrist. Nine PM. He’d been asleep for nearly eight hours.

“Thought it was probably best you didn’t sleep with it on,” Trapper explained, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Hawkeye declined to answer, instead he shifted back on the bed, crossing his legs and settling comfortably. Trapper seemed disinclined to move and that suited just fine. Reaching out a hand Hawkeye hesitated before letting it fall against Trapper’s leg. Trap stirred a little, turning his head to glance down at Hawkeye, a small, almost boyish grin flashing toward him. His own lips twitching reflexively Hawkeye trailed his hand up the long length of leg, tracing the dip of his knee with his thumb, continuing upward, Trapper tensing a little beneath him. His touch wasn’t sexual and as Trapper gradually realised that his body relaxed again and Hawkeye let his hand rest against Trapper’s ass, fingers swirling lightly over the denim, the rough fabric dragging against the tips. Hooking a finger through a belt buckle he worried at the loop as the darkness began to press in around them. So many questions remained unanswered between them, and yet neither seemed prepared to risk harming the equilibrium they had found. 

“You been asleep the entire time?” Hawkeye asked.

Trapper shook his head and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, “nah, went for a drive into town got a coffee. Didn’t stay away too long,” he added, seeing a look of mild panic wash over Hawkeye’s features.

Hawkeye nodded quickly, trying to dismiss the deep sense of unease that had rushed over him when he imagined the hours he must have lain alone. Trapper shifted again and Hawkeye withdrew his hand.

“Did some shopping,” Trapper offered.

“Don’t suppose you got any food?” Hawkeye asked, suddenly aware of the hollowness of his stomach.

Trapper shook his head regretfully, “sorry,” he said. Pushing himself up he turned away from Hawkeye, moving to perch on the edge of the bed. “I did get you something,” he said haltingly.

“Yeah?” Hawkeye asked, mildly interested, expecting some cheap piece of tourist tat to be thrown his way; a gaudy painted shell that had caught Trapper’s eye or maybe the latest in pulp literature, something that he could keep until the memories had dulled sufficiently to make it nothing more than any other object in his possession. Trapper got to his feet and headed toward the dressing table, picking up a large package Hawkeye hadn’t noticed until this moment. Its paper creaked as Trapper handed it over, his expression guarded but edgily hopeful. 

Hawkeye ran his fingers over the grey paper, a little unsure of his role in this scenario. The odd nights when ex-lovers had crept back into his bed they’d never brought gifts, and he sure as hell had never offered one. Turning it over he slipped his fingers beneath the string, pulling it away from the paper, letting its wrapping fall away. Inside was a carefully folded shirt and a pair of grey slacks, cut to the latest style. Hawkeye glanced up at Trapper in confusion and watched as his face reddened, though he resolutely held Hawkeye’s eyes.

“Nothing I’ve brought will touch you,” he said reaching to skim his fingers over the line of Hawkeye’s prominent ribs, “You always were shorter and skinnier than me. What happened, they cut rations?” he asked.

“Hey I’m not Radar, and you’re only an inch taller than me,” Hawkeye protested choosing to ignore the question. Though he acknowledged the truth of the statement, he had lost weight recently, seemed loosing your mind also involved loosing your appetite. 

He ran his hands over the shirt, smoothing out a small crease. Aside from a book or two shoved into the top of his bag, these were the only things he had at present that could be called his. The kit bag in the car held only a loose collection of army shorts and a clean uniform, and the irony of that was not lost on him. His other belongs had been tossed into the trunk which was probably bobbing around the base of a cargo ship somewhere in the South Asian Sea. Trapper’s original offer of lending him clothes had been generous, but now he was forced to contemplate it, the idea of walking into the old house in ill fitting clothes that weren’t his own didn’t appeal. In fact it wasn’t at all appealing. Rang no bells whatsoever. And Trapper understood that. Hawkeye glanced upward, staring at his friend, really looking for the first time in months, maybe the first time ever. He felt his heart swell as he took in the round face with its topping of curls, cropped shorter now, and all the tighter for it. He hadn’t expected Trapper to be here, hadn’t been wanting him for perhaps a year. And yet now he was here Hawkeye couldn’t imagine sharing this with anyone else. 

“Thanks Trap,” he said quietly, a moment of understanding passing between them.

Trapper nodded lightly, reaching out a hand to ruffle Hawkeye’s hair. His fingers dropped lower, lightly grazing the dog tags that still lay around Hawkeye’s neck.

“I want to see dad,” Hawkeye suddenly said, the need for home suddenly overwhelming him. In his mind’s eye he saw the sure, steady, endless sea just as it looked from the window of his father’s study, shimmering in a band of colour, blue, green and slate grey as it changed with the seasons. A tumult of memories burst over him and he felt his eyes glisten as a hollow, yearning ache settled in his chest. “God I want to see him,” he said again, glancing around the small room as if confused to find himself still here.

“It’s dark now,” Trapper noted. “And late.”

Hawkeye uncoiled himself from the bed, rising to his feet. “I’m hungry,” he said, seeming not to note Trapper’s words.

Trapper glanced at his watch again, “it’s late Hawk,” he said again, too used to Hawkeye’s mercurial mind to bother following the leaps in conversation.

Hawkeye blinked and glanced up at him, “I’ll drive if you’re tired,” he offered.

“That’s not what I meant,” Trapper said with a sigh and a shake of his head.

Hawkeye stared back at him, confusion evident on his face.

“Forget it, forget it,” Trapper insisted as he reached for his shirt, “there’ll be someone open selling food, we can ask at the desk. I’ll take you home first thing in the morning.” 

Turning away Trapper began rifling through the items of discarded clothing until he settled upon something that jingled. Hawkeye leant back against the door frame and watched as Trapper retrieved the car keys with a certain sense of determination, shoving them into his pocket before reaching for a jacket. This was lighter than the windcheater of earlier, a black, almost vinyl like material that looked oddly oily beneath the yellow glare of the strip light. Trapper was still turned away from him, the jeans of earlier stretched tight across his ass and Hawkeye felt the stutter of slow arousal coil through his stomach, luxuriating in its languor. Spinning on his heels Trapper caught the look, flushing under the frank appraisal. He dipped his head and touched a hand to his face, blocking his view of Hawkeye.

“I know, I know,” Trapper muttered deprecatingly, “Louise got it, thinks it’s very Johnny Cash or Carl Perkins.”

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow and levelled his gaze, “I’ll ride you cowboy,” he said, his voice low and sultry and Trapper felt his eyes flicker shut even as his breathing quickened, his body responding instantly to the invitation.

“Hawk,” he said with a shake of his head, making to turn away.

Hawkeye caught his arm and held him still, his grip loose and light, aware he had probably just crossed an unspoken line. “Trapper?” he began. “Trap?” he tried again. “Thanks,” he added quietly, the urgency the word not lost to its volume.

Trapper turned his head, and then his body, “for what?” he asked.

“For meeting me,” Hawkeye said with a shrug, “for…” he managed before trailing off, gesturing to their bodies. “It’s been a long eighteen months without you,” he admitted, firmly trampling over the line.

Trapper stepped forward, inching in-between Hawkeye’s legs, accepting without question the arms that came up to embrace him and the brief, tender kiss that was pressed to his lips.

“No charge,” Trapper whispered, watching as the same memory rushed to Hawkeye’s mind. Hawkeye nodded slowly and gathered him in close once again, trying to ignore the feeling of his heart breaking, knowing this couldn’t last more than a night.

“Still want that food?” Trapper asked after several minutes, his voice muffled against Hawkeye’s bare chest.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed.

“Then you’ll have to get dressed,” Trapper pointed out dryly.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed again as his stomach rumbled on cue, “There’s got to be someplace open around here,” he noted as he reached for the parcel on the bed. He shrugged the shirt on, buttoning it deftly before turning away to drop his pants, quickly donning the other pair, discovering his new found modesty had not quite deserted him. He turned around to find Trapper staring at him intently.

“Nice,” he offered as he approached, holding Hawkeye loosely as he stole a brief kiss.

“Where are we anyway?” Hawkeye asked.

“Auburn,” Trapper told him, “’bout thirty miles North of Portland.”

A grin stole onto Hawkeye’s face and his hands came up to grip Trapper’s arms, easing him away, “Then I know just the place,” he said.

They walked the short distance to the car in silence, each slipping into their seat without a word. This time the silence was easier, familiar and when Trapper’s hand brushed against Hawkeye’s as he slipped the car into gear the touch felt habitual; felt easy, felt right.

Trapper paused the car at the exit and flicked on the indicator as lights blared down from the horizon. He sat back in his seat and waited until the car blared past them, its red tail lights sinking into the deepening night. Then he turned the car right and headed out toward the coast, the headlights, white lines and black asphalt sliding away behind them, easy and smooth beneath the hum of the tyres. Outside trees and farms and fences were odd, shapeless forms in the gloom, and the only thing that felt sharp and real was the two of them, cocooned in against the world, sharing words and idle thoughts and touches that grew more and more sure the more they recalled, laughter beginning to bound around the car as it hammered down the roads.

Half an hour later Hawkeye directed them into the parking lot of a roadside café with a bright, neon sign that touted its wares. Stepping into the place was a shock, it’s bright, white light burning their eyes. Hawkeye stepped forward, heading toward a couple of booths tucked away behind the counter, out of sight of the door but close to the kitchen. They slid into opposite sides of the booth without argument.

Trapper glanced around, his fingers drumming rapidly against the table. A couple of other diners were scattered around the perimeter tables, one chewing thoughtfully on a piece of meat, the other buried in his paper. On a second glance the place didn’t look that bright, the walls were lined with imitation oak panels and several of the bulbs in the lamps were burned out, the Formica of the tables chipped in places. Behind the counter a radio was tuned to some music station, the tinny, jaunty pop tunes interspersed by an equally jaunty jock and faced with civilisation the atmosphere of the car fled, the awkwardness of earlier returning. Trapper lifted his eyes and found Hawkeye staring at him, his blue eyes bright and unyielding and it was a distinct relief when a girl arrived to take their order.

Trapper reached abortively for the menu but Hawkeye halted the movement, “two seafood platters,” he instructed, “and two beers.”

“One beer,” Trapper corrected quietly, “I’ll have a soda.”

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow and for a second those blue eyes burned with something akin to accusation.

“I’m driving,” he said with a shrug.

The girl, probably not much more than sixteen smiled her understanding and sauntered away, her gait a distinct sashay that drew both their eyes, only the thud of the kitchen door breaking their concentration.

Hawkeye drew in a long breath and reached for a coaster, rocking it between the tabletop and his palm. “So how’ve you been?” he eventually asked, a false brightness to his voice.

“Okay,” Trapper said. “Good,” he corrected. “Good. I’m working at a hospital up in Portland, head of their ER.”

Hawkeye blinked, his eyes finding Trapper’s as he processed that particular piece of information. “Portland?” he asked, shock evident in his voice.

Trapper nodded. “General couldn’t hold my job open and the guy who filled it wasn’t too keen to give it up when I got back. ‘Bout three months or so after I got back the chief of surgery heard of an opening at the Maine Medical Centre. It was too good an offer to pass up, job’s aren’t exactly plentiful when you’ve been off the scene for a year and a half. Guess you’ll find that out,” Trapper added with belated concern.

Hawkeye shrugged off the comment, “So you moved up?” he asked, an unexpected sense of joy bursting through him, the news a little like a surprise gift. 

Trapper shook his head, “Nah, Louise wont leave the house, or her mom. I work five days a week, normally Thursday through Monday, drive down to see the girls and then back up again. The distance isn’t too great, and at least the salary allows me to run two cars,” he said with a small, uncomfortable laugh, holding Hawkeye’s gaze for as long he could, willing him to understand what he himself hadn’t been too clear on until he seen Hawkeye stumble from the plane. Trying to make him understand why his heart had jumped the moment he’d seen the words ‘Portland, Maine’ on the telegram that invited him for interview. Trying to make him understand why in that same moment he knew he’d take the job.

“Can’t say as I noticed it,” Hawkeye commented, turning the information over in his head, “all I got as chief surgeon was a headache and corns.”

“Don’t forget the fame and glory,” Trapper added.

“How could I?” Hawkeye asked sarcastically, “me and my gloriously famous corns. We could have turned it into a tourist attraction.”

“I think we tried once,” Trapper suggested, both knowing the statement was pure fallacy but adoring it just the same.

Hawkeye smiled, the first genuine smile Trapper had seen since his arrival. “You’re living in Portland?” Hawkeye suddenly asked, turning the conversation back its previous topic, the smile fading from his lips.

Trapper nodded and found Hawkeye’s eyes once again, “Kind of,” he amended, “I rent a room from the hospital.”

It was Hawkeye’s turn to nod, “you’re living in Portland,” he repeated. Somewhere in the back of his mind something was pushing to make it’s presence known, but he edged it firmly away.

“Working in Portland,” Trapper amended, though his voice carried no conviction. He broke Hawkeye’s gaze and dipped his head, staring down at the cream of the table top. Over by the condiments rack tiny crystals of sugar or salt were scattered across the shiny surface, the lights picking out their imperfect planes, causing them to shimmer and glisten. He tracked them across the table, picking out a pattern like Becky’s dot-to-dot books used to do.

“Trap?” Hawkeye asked, concern lacing his tone.

Trapper lifted a hand to his face and realised that the shimmering and glistening came from his own glassy eyes.

“Things end, okay?” he bit out, his voice jerky and rough, as he acknowledged the true state of his marriage, perhaps truly accepting for the first time that his girls were mostly lost to him.

Hawkeye’s fingers grazed against Trapper’s and a serviette was pushed his way.

“So I guess that was the wrong question?” Hawk asked, after several minutes. 

Trapper glanced upward and this time the brightness in Hawkeye’s voice wasn’t forced, and a gentle, wry irony had settled on his face. Trapper shared his smile, conceding the point.

“We’re not divorced,” Trapper said, that fact suddenly seeming important.

“You Catholics and your mortal sins,” he said with a shrug, his fingers still brushing against Trapper’s in a slow, careful movement.

“’bout you?” Trapper asked his accent suddenly thick.

“Oh you know,” Hawkeye began breezily, “shell-shocked, permanently exhausted and a little confused as to why I’m not dressed in mud and green. I’m doing just dandy. You?”

“We did me,” Trapper pointed out.

“Ah but not all the details,” Hawkeye insisted, as their drinks arrived. “So have you got yourself some pretty ER nurse to keep your bed warm when you’re away from home? Let me guess…brunette?” he queried, “maybe five and a half feet, brown eyes to go with the brown hair, it’s a complete package?”

Trapper shook his head sharply, “I’m not divorced,” he repeated, letting Hawkeye make what he would of that statement, unable to find the words to explain fully. He watched as confusion and then pain sparked in Hawkeye’s eyes, not quite able to mention that the girls didn’t seem to think him that much of a catch when the field wasn’t quite so narrow. Didn’t know how to say that without Hawkeye around he never seemed to shine quite so bright. Didn’t know how to say that it wasn’t until he was home from Korea that he realised how much he wanted what had been between them. How much he needed that. How pretending his marriage still mattered fended off a lot of awkward questions that for a while he hadn’t even dared ask himself. So instead he drew his fingers away from Hawkeye’s, folding his hands into his lap.

“Got a job lined up?” Trapper asked.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed, “I’m going to work with dad, give him at least a chance to experience retirement.”

“Well it’s not a bad way to ease back in,” Trapper agreed, “where you thinking of looking after that? Boston again? I could maybe ask around the hospital if you fancied Portland?”

“We’ll see,” Hawkeye agreed noncommittally.

“Thoracic surgery openings don’t come up that often,” Trapper mused, “might be a fair wait.”

Hawkeye shrugged, “suits me,” he said.

Trapper eyed him carefully, taking in the way Hawkeye refused to quite meet his eyes. “You are going back into surgery?” he asked.

Hawkeye shrugged again, “we’ll see,” he repeated.

“Hawk…” Trapper said, disbelief colouring his tone.

Hawkeye raised a hand, waving it in the air as if to fend off the unspoken words, “right now I need to do something where my patient’s life depends more on whether they look both ways at the crossing and less on my judgement,” he said quietly.

He glanced upward and found Trapper eyes, soft and deep upon him, “General Practice isn’t exactly a picnic,” he observed.

Hawkeye huffed out a laugh, “bunions, hypochondriacs and a stack of unpaid bills are about all I want, right now,” he admitted.

Letting the subject drop, and still unsure of conversations topics, Trapper found himself slipping all too easily into their default mode.

“All you want?” Trapper asked, and though his tone was light he was aware of the distinct edge to his tone. His forwardness took him by surprise, but the words couldn’t be retrieved and now the question was out there he was eager to see where Hawkeye took them.

Hawkeye’s gaze shot upward and he met Trapper’s gaze with a slightly startled expression, though it vanished in an instant, being replaced by the trademark, toothy grin, “well I would like my dinner,” he agreed.

“Anything else?” Trapper baited, managing to keep his tone light.

Hawkeye leant back in seat, shoulder bumping against the high sides of the booth, “A bath?” he offered, “a warm, deep, full bath that isn’t in a shower cubicle or Radar’s office.”

“Bubbles?” Trapper asked.

“They tickle my nose,” Hawkeye confided.

Trapper grinned, “That all you want?” he asked again, wincing a little at quite how desperate the repeated question sounded. Yet the need to know what Hawkeye was thinking was overwhelming him, the desire growing with every evasion.

Hawkeye glanced at him sharply, his blue eyes momentarily watery and weak. He reached for his fork, pressing down on the tines, rocking up and down, up and down. His eyes flickered back to Trapper’s for the barest of seconds, the rawness he saw reflected forcing him to turn away. For a moment he allowed himself to contemplate Trapper, contemplate why in the name of all that was unholy was he sat in a diner somewhere in not quite rural America, watching a half washed-up surgeon play with his cutlery. 

Again something prodded at his mind, and this time he didn’t turn the thought away. The thought that quietly, ever so vaguely acknowledged that Trapper _was_ sat here, in a diner, watching him toy with his cutlery; and here he was hinting at something else, something more, something he’d been sure couldn’t exist outside of an isolated little military enclave far, far away from their lives.

Actually he was more than hinting, Hawkeye acknowledged, he was driving at it with all the subtly of a two ton truck with failed brakes. Hawkeye felt himself smile, because that was Trap through and through. And thinking of Trap made him feel warm through and through.

Away to the left the swing door to the kitchen bustled open and the waitress reappeared, carefully balancing their food on a large tray which seemed distinctly disproportionate to her own size. Trapper remained silent, forcing Hawkeye to exchange pleasantries with the girl, tossing out a few witty remarks, as she dolled out a plate and finger bowl to each man, a basket of bread chunks between them.

Hawkeye sighed loudly as she left, the sound more content than weary and Trapper glanced up, slightly amazed to find Hawkeye grinning at him, rubbing his hands with childlike glee as he eyed their plates.

“This is going to be good,” he declared with confidence, “they do the best seafood within a fifty mile radius, and that includes the harbour restaurants. The muscles steamed just so, the crab, soft and never over pungent, all fish to all seasons, from anchovies to angel fish, hale to hake. The chef himself is a mermaid, stolen from his people and raised as a human, revealing his true form only when a high time and a full moon coincide.”

“Merman,” Trapper corrected.

“Merman, mermaid, man-made,” Hawkeye muttered, his eyes flashing a little at the interruption, resenting the intrusion into his story, resenting the reminder that warm as he might feel, he and Trapper seemed to have lost something over the time apart, lost the easy way their thoughts flowed together, stitching them into a place of their own.

“This is good,” Trapper agreed as he started in on the crab, “how did you know this place was here?”

Hawkeye stared at him, raising an eyebrow slowly as he savoured a piece of lightly grilled shrimp.

“What?” Trapper demanded, careful to keep his tone light.

“It’s about three miles from Androscoggin,” Hawkeye pointed out, “you’re clearly geographically challenged. I’m beginning to see why you plumped for the Swamp when you first arrived at camp, any further away from the hospital and you’d have got lost between the two.”

It was Trapper’s turn to raise an eyebrow, even as he shrugged away the implicit criticism. “Long time ago Hawk,” he said simply, “besides,” Trapper continued, “I wasn’t navigating on the one trip we made up here, I think I was in the back of the bus helping a cheerleader to adjust her sweater.”

“Good times,” Hawkeye said flatly.

“Oh she was,” Trapper agreed, struggling to keep the conversation going. “You really not going back into surgery?” he asked again, the question suddenly striking him full force as he was reminded of his college days and the years of study it had taken to get to this point.

Hawkeye raised his eyes as he reached for a sip of a drink and lightly shrugged his shoulders as he turned away, his eyes drawn to a movement at the other side of the restaurant. The gesture wasn’t dismissive, it was merely the last refuge of a man who’d said all he wanted to say.

Trapper stared at him thoughtfully, noting the slight tension in Hawkeye’s shoulders, the way his fingers periodically rubbed at his face and neck. He seemed increasingly uncomfortable, nervous, his eyes drifting toward the door of the diner, as if to reassure himself it were still there. And although Margaret’s letter had partly warned him about the change in his friend, it was quite another to see it. Something cold started to creep into his chest as he realised that the half formed, wispy ideas he’d been living on for the last week, might be just that; ideas; hopes; wishes and horses. Might be nothing that would come to pass.

Another silence opened between them as they both focussed on their meals. The radio was playing Jerry Lee Lewis, and behind the counter the waitress was rocking to the strong, pulsating beat as she wiped down its surface. The ties of her apron bobbed and swung to the sway of her body, following half a beat after her hips. Trapper found his eyes drawn to thin fabric strips, fascinated by the way they seemed to hang in the air, motionless and still whilst everything around them, the girl, the air, her mood, were in constant flux.

“I once brought the entire senior prom here,” Hawkeye said.

Trapper blinked, “Yeah?” he asked, dragging his eyes away, scanning across the modest interior, counting the six tables he could see in the place “I never got the impression Androscoggin was that small?”

“Well not the entire senior prom,” Hawkeye conceded, “merely everybody who was anybody.”

Trapper raised an eyebrow, “and who was that then?” he asked, correctly guessing the number was modest to say the least.

“Oh at least seven of us, maybe eight,” Hawkeye agreed brightly, “there was me and Carlyle, Rich and Rob from lab classes, probably their dates, Bounder was driving, I think he’d lost his date,” he concluded uncertainly.

“Bounder?” Trapper asked.

“Billy-The-Bounder-Urban,” Hawkeye responded with a chuckle, “the unusual combination of a damn impressive quarterback who managed to equal his sporting achievements with his academic ones. I think the Dean still drools over his picture. It’s in a large frame in the lobby of his office. Then again the frame would need to be large, he was quite a size, even in those days. Everyone that ran at him rebounded right off. Had a go myself once.”

“What happened?” Trapper asked, wondering if the double entendre was in only his head.

“Bruised my elbow,” Hawk said, raising his arm and glaring at it as though the incident had happened only yesterday, “we made the mistake of trying it in the dorm corridor and I must have hit a curve because I ricocheted off into a wall. The wall was unharmed,” he concluded with a deadpan expression.

“We did something similar once,” Trapper agreed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Only it was less bouncing into the wall, more being thrown at the wall,” Trapper admitted.

“You? Fighting?” Hawkeye asked, his tone all mock scandal, “I can’t imagine it. I do hope it was over something worthwhile.”

“Door hinges,” Trapper said as he took a sip of his drink, letting the comment marinate for a moment. “Well more doors actually,” he added after a beat.

“You made a pass at one and the guy that got there first was upset?” Hawkeye suggested.

Trapper laughed, “pretty much actually,” he agreed.

“Never took you to be the kind of man who gets excited over some tongue and grove and a well oiled joint,” Hawkeye commented, the words tripping off his tongue with an apparent ease. Only an urgent, focused, look about his eyes giving a hint to the furious thought that lay behind it.

Trapper took hold of a steamed clam, easing his knife along the top shell, taking the moment to marvel at Hawkeye, the way his quick, mercurial mind allowed him to slip the most filthy of thoughts into conversation without breaking a sweat.

“Well you’d be the one to know,” Trapper said, his tone light where his words were not. 

Running his knife under the muscle he released the meat, scooping it out with a practiced ease, taking the mouthful straight from the knife. Hawkeye was staring back at him, his expression intense as he followed the movement, eyes even following the roll of his throat as he swallowed. And Trapper had the distinct feeling that if he could Hawkeye would have followed it further, tracked the food as it curled through his body, seeking out a special, intimate knowledge. Trapper felt his skin prickle as the moment stretched between them, neither backing down from this mutual acknowledgment. He reached for his drink, taking a long, cool sip of the liquid, the bubbles breaking around his teeth.

“We were rather a rowdy dorm,” he continued calmly, “had a tendency to play football up and down the corridor, with various fixtures and fittings becoming ill in the process.”

“Casualties of war,” Hawkeye agreed smoothly, his eyes still holding Trapper’s, though the intensity of his gaze had lessened.

Trapper nodded and offered up a grin. “Only by the end of year it dawned on the more intelligent among us that there was likely to be an unholy row. We’d already been chewed out by the janitors over light bulbs and so after a few drinks one night someone decided that the obvious solution was to unscrew the most damaged doors and simply liberate a few from other rooms when their occupants were otherwise engaged.”

“Only their owners were less than agreeable?” Hawkeye guessed.

“Absolutely,” Trapper agreed, “one guy even called me a dirty rotten fink.”

“The guy that threw you into the wall?” Hawkeye asked.

“No, he didn’t call me anything,” Trapper noted, “he just proved I was more aerodynamic than I’d thought. Mind you the Dean saw the funny side of it, he had several quips about people being in the frame. Still fined us though,” he concluded thoughtfully.

Hawkeye chuckled lightly as he imagined the scene. Imagined a younger, lither Trap, his face still boyish in its roundness, the skin soft and supple, not yet tightened around his bones, definition still to be revealed.

“I wish I could have known you in college,” he said with a rueful shake of his head, “it would have been fun.”

“Not for anybody else,” Trapper suggested darkly. “I tossed you a ball once,” he added.

“Actually I intercepted a ball,” Hawkeye corrected.

“The only time you made any decent play that game,” Trapper said with a chuckle.

“It was my only game,” Hawkeye told him wryly, “and the only reason I was there was because half our players were in the san with food poising and the cheerleader I was dating gave my name to the football captain. He took one look at me, figured that at the very least I was going to be able run, and promptly shoved me on the wing. Worst decision he ever made. And that includes asking Millicent Grinkle to marry him.”

“Not a looker?” Trapper asked.

“No front teeth,” Hawkeye told him with a slight shudder.

Trapper paused and considered the point, “could be considered a bonus, for some things,” he said with a light, lascivious grin, his tongue flicking out to trace the line of his lip.

Hawkeye also paused, a surprised chuckle bursting from him, “maybe I missed a trick,” he contemplated, before repeating his earlier shudder. “No,” he concluded firmly, “even that wouldn’t make it worthwhile.”

Trapper grinned, Hawkeye returning the gesture as they enjoyed the moment. Trapper took another sip from his drink and noticed Hawkeye’s nearly empty glass. 

“Want another?” Trapper asked, knowing full well the question was redundant. The answering nod came quickly and he glanced up, gesturing to their glasses as he caught the girl’s eye. He raised his to his lips, taking several long slugs of the liquid, draining it dry. Hawkeye was watching him again, sprawled back in his seat, his shoulders set at an angle, those blue eyes relentless in their appraisal. And yet the scrutiny didn’t feel uncomfortable. He knew the look, he’d seen it every day in Korea as Hawk had moved from one patient to the next, grace and good humour leaking from him as he sized up the causalities, figured out the priorities.

“What are you doing here, Trap?” he asked quietly as Trapper finally lowered his glass.

Trapper’s eyes narrowed, his body stilling as he considered the question, letting it tumble over him. A warmth settled in his belly, radiating out though this body. Hawk knew what he wanted alright, he just hadn’t been sure what Trapper was offering.

“Margaret,” he said simply, regarding Hawkeye with a soft expression, letting the acknowledgment flow between them, “said you could use a friend, that you’d spent some time with Sid.”

“Hmm,” Hawkeye agreed, the noise utterly noncommittal, though his gaze didn’t turn away and Trapper read the implicit consent.

“What happened?” he asked.

This time Hawkeye did break his gaze, his eyes drifting to the floor tracing the gaudy pattern on the linoleum. “Margaret?” he asked, the very idea striking him as odd, even as his mind was drawn back to the last, few hellish weeks.

Trapper nodded, but chose to say nothing.

“I knew I was right to kiss her,” Hawk said casually, sure Trapper would be more interested in that point than his original question.

“You kissed her?” Trapper demanded, right on cue.

“Slept with her,” Hawkeye offered, “once. ‘Bout a year ago.”

“God, how drunk did you get her?” Trapper asked warily, biting off the additional comment which would have asked, ‘and how is everything still attached down there?’.

“Barely at all,” Hawkeye responded, “I merely got wounded and then we got trapped with bombs falling. Or was it the other way around,” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head as the memory refused to coalesce in his mind. “Anyway, turns out that’s the combination she can’t resist. You nearly had her that time a barrage got you stuck in the stores. Perhaps if you’d grazed your knee in the compound you’d have managed to get lucky. Vulnerable men,” he continued, “that’s why she hit on Frank, he needed her and she needed to be needed.” He knew he was labouring the point, but his mind seemed inclined to run away from him, dancing around like paper bag blown on the breeze. His, mouth, as ever, following wither his head went.

Trapper glanced up, his brown eyes tender, understanding Hawkeye’s wanderings for what they were. He blinked several times and Hawkeye watched the rhythmic fluttering, drawn once again to the delicate lashes.

“What happened?” he asked again. 

Hawkeye sighed and lay his cutlery down on the plate, dropping his napkin on afterward and pushing his plate away. The meal was only two thirds finished and yet he felt full. He reached for the glass of beer, drawing it before him, wrapping his hands around the narrow, frosted glass.

Trapper continued eating, though his whole body was on alert and Hawkeye idly wondered what that was doing to his digestion.

He contemplated ignoring the question, there had to be fifty things he could talk about, endless ideas he could muse on, expand on, embellish on, riff and roll through the air between them, his words weaving an endless cacophony of distraction. But the moment he paused to draw breath, or perhaps even grew tired of the sound of his own voice Trap would be there, and, like a terrier with a toy between its teeth, would simply ask the question again. And again. And keep asking until he got a satisfactory answer, no matter what it took. Hawkeye took a sip of his drink and realised he had no energy left for a fight. No will for a fight, he corrected. No wish to fight with Trap. 

“It got worse,” Hawkeye said, his eyes flicking up, catching Trapper’s open, brown ones. “Much worse. Those last few months everything started to fall apart. And I mean really fall apart. Scared they were going to get caught with half a hillock less than the other side, everyone threw everything they could at the other. Casualties coming in with wounds we couldn’t treat. POW’s holed up in the compound. Supplies running low because Washington slashed the budget for everything but weapons, unwilling to fund a dying war. Front line shifting every day; every hour in the end. We bugged out three times in the last month as the front line changed. If you left camp you had no idea where the line was, where was safe, where the patrols were. It fell apart Trap, really fell apart,” he concluded, his voice wavering a little on his last words.

He took a drink of his beer. Then a second. Then another.

“That’s not it,” Trapper said quietly, his voice carrying no accusation or censure. He knew that the deprivations and chaos of war had tested Hawkeye’s patience, his humour and his resolve, but they hadn’t ever broken him. And much as Hawkeye loved his life, took care to grab at every last drop of joy or gin that he could, the threat of losing it would never have caused a trip to Sid. Never would have caused Margaret to rush off a hasty, almost panicky letter in the vain hope it would find its target.

“No. No,” Hawkeye agreed with a small, humourless laugh, reminding himself that despite time and distance, Trapper really did know him. The war had stripped every man back to his most basic instincts, distilled them down to a place where convention and politeness were little more than a memory. But even without that Trap knew him, and that fact soothed him.

He sighed again and glanced up at their surroundings, a little amused by the fact that they were having this conversation in a roadside diner, a place part-way between anywhere, frequented by traveller, truckers and tourists. But it was no stranger than the intimacies they’d shared in Korea, sheltered only by canvas tents and a badly stocked OR. And in someway this place felt safe, the public nature of it constraining them, constraining his emotions, tethering him down.

He took another sip of his drink. 

“There was bus,” he began. “Actually, there was a beach,” he corrected, “the shore down at Incheon. The OR was quiet, the fighting in our sector had run down to a trickle and Potter, Henry’s replacement, got on the horn to some of his old buddies and confirmed that as no fighting was expected we could take the day off. Fourth of July. Beach volley ball, barbeques and a blast had by all. Our own little bit of independence. It really felt like a holiday,” he said with a tight grin, flicking his eyes up to Trapper’s.

“Now why couldn’t Henry ever swing that?” Trapper asked quietly, his tone never demanding an answer, caring only that Hawk understood he was listening.

“Old Henry,” Hawkeye agreed wistfully. “We started back late, just as the sun was going down and it took a direct order to get most of us on the bus. There was still quite an atmosphere, but that didn’t last long, we picked up some refugees about forty minutes into the journey, and some wounded GI’s half a mile later. They’d just limped off the line.”

He paused again, the memory suddenly frighteningly real, remembering the quiet terror that had crept through the bus when each and every person had realised how close the front had crept in just a day; wondering how many men had been sacrificed, wondering if they would be next.

Trapper stared back at Hawkeye, his focus only on his friend, his meal forgotten, knife and fork discarded carefully, lying side by side, plate pushed to one side. Beneath the table their knees bumped and Hawkeye flashed a brief, brittle smile, thankful of the contact.

“BJ and I were treating the two wounded whilst their sergeant directed us into some bushes to try and avoid an enemy patrol that was coming down the road, right between us and home. Beej had shot the kids up with morphine, mostly to ensure they kept quiet, we were working by dead reckoning, hoping that neither man had anything in the way of anatomy that we were unable to recognise by touch. I had my patient stable quickly, only a mild concussion and a broken arm that the aid station had strapped up well enough. I’d have done more damage taking a look, so I left it.”

He glanced up again as he pushed his knee more firmly against Trapper’s aware that he was letting the story linger, unwilling to head it toward its conclusion. Then Trapper’s eyes found his own, a quiet, patient understanding filling their depths and suddenly all the time spent with Sidney seemed like little more than a rehearsal for this moment. A sure, deep confidence filled him and the need for Trapper flooded over him, the need for his unrelenting simplicity.

“A woman at the back of the bus had a child with her, probably about ten months old, skinny little thing that was constantly whimpering and crying. Hunger? Perhaps picking up the tension,” Hawk suggested with a shrug, once again willing to divert his thoughts. He took a long gulp of his drink. Setting it down again his eyes traced the fall of condensation droplets down its surface. Lifting a finger he trailed an idle pattern through the damp frosting.

“I was tense, we all were,” he continued, “went up to the back of the bus and…asked her to keep the kid quiet. Shouted at her actually,” he admitted several seconds later, “well hissed at her,” he amended again. “With as much force and volume as the situation would allow,” he added, none of the words managing to capture the moment accurately enough, the terrible hushed tension of the bus and how loud, how brash his voice had sounded. His brow furrowed in contemplation, but he left the point alone.

Trapper stared over at Hawkeye, an awful, uneasy feeling settling over him. Hawkeye’s own body was rigid with tension, his eyes darting first left and then right, refusing to settle in any one place; unable to settle.

“Hawk,” Trapper said gently, the word demanding nothing, just a quiet, easy reminder of his presence.

“She silenced it alright,” Hawkeye said shakily, his voice rapid, the words falling from his lips, each syllable a shot into the space between them. Then he stilled and rested his hands against the table, his body slumping against the tall leather back of the booth.

“She smothered it,” he said, “I told her to keep it quiet and she smothered it.”

Silence pulsed around them, an echoing pause that seemed to contract in on itself, hollowing out Trapper’s stomach.

“Jesus,” he commented, finding no other words forming in his mind. His eyes were wide and a dreadful ache rolled over him, even as his mind scrambled for some form of purchase, aware this moment wasn’t about him.

“Not sure he was there,” Hawkeye commented, his voice suddenly sounding vague, as though it were coming from far away and Trapper could read every one of the seven thousand miles in his eyes. An empathetic pain coiled through his chest and he yearned to ease Hawkeye’s pain; carefully resisting the impulse to simply climb over the table and kiss him until he forgot.

“Went a bit mad after that,” Hawk continued, “froze up in surgery, found talking to myself in the shower, kept insisting the ambulance driver had a hidden agenda…” He trailed off, his eyes as unfocussed as his words.

“You never did like to do things by halves,” Trapper commented his tone also a little distant, the words lacking conviction. Trapper swallowed hard as he imagined the burden Hawk had been carrying. He knew what it was to lose a patient, all doctors did. He knew the twinges of guilt that came from knowing a man was no longer breathing because you weren’t quick enough or smart enough or skilled enough. But to know that a kid was no longer breathing because of your words; that was one hell of a kicker.

Hawk glanced up at him, his eyes haunted, his stare fixed, just like it had been back at the airfield and Trapper could read the exhaustion that lay within. He pressed his fingers hard against the table, the joints turning white with the strain and he smiled sadly, knowing that Hawk had finally reached the end of the line, had seen more death than he knew how to cope with. And so he had quite simply stopped; simply refused to take delivery of any more suffering. His fingers twitching where they lay against the table top and found himself wondering himself if Hawk would ever return to surgery. He pulled the paper napkin from his lap and threw it onto his plate.

“Let’s get out of here,” Trapper suggested, standing up and tossing a bundle of notes to the table, suiting his actions to his words, unable to remain seated, Hawkeye’s tale demanding action. That the only thing he could do was take him back to a small, dark motel stung deeply. Hawkeye deserved better; deserved everything.

* * *

They walked to the car in silence and Trapper reached for the radio as he roared the engine into life, scrolling through the whine and hiss of the FM band until he settled upon some swing band or other. The music was bright and leaked into the car, filling the space between them, easing the need for conversation.

“Okay?” he asked Hawkeye, his tone light, neural, letting Hawk pick the depth of the question.

Hawk’s eyes flicked to the radio and he offered up a quick noncommittal grunt before turning his eyes away. Trapper raised a single eyebrow, but respected Hawk’s decision, shrugging lightly as he pushed the car into drive and released the handbrake.

The motel forecourt was still largely deserted by the time they returned and at the late hour no other visitors seemed likely. A large, yellow sedan was parked outside a cabin close to the desk, the windows of the room dark, the occupants clearly in bed. Otherwise they were alone, the end of the tourist season dulling the trade to little more than a trickle of hardy, happy campers and Trapper was glad of the isolation, glad that nothing could impinge upon their world.

He drew the car to halt and slipped the keys from the ignition easing his body from the car a beat later. Walking to the boot he shoved it open and reached into the dark interior, grabbing Hawkeye’s bags, carrying them into the room. He dropped them onto the bed hearing Hawkeye enter behind him, the door closing with a quiet, final click. The light flickered on a second after, stuttering momentarily before its pale yellow hue leaked out across the room.

“You didn’t ask her to do what she did,” Trapper said, his tone carrying a quiet, final simplicity.

Hawk leant back against the door, palms pressed against the wood, a little weight slipping from him at the statement, relieved that Trapper didn’t feel the need to ignore this. Beej and Potter and the rest of the camp had avoided the topic, embarrassed by his breakdown, unsure how to cope when he wasn’t quite the happy-go-lucky fellow of song and story. But that wasn’t Trap and it had never been that way between them.

He nodded, belatedly aware that Trapper, his back still turned toward him, was unable to see the gesture, “I know,” he said, his voice lacking that same conviction.

Trapper turned to face him, taking in the weariness that seemed emanate from Hawk. “But it feels like you did,” he guessed.

Hawkeye nodded, as he approached the bed, sinking heavily into the mattress, the springs protesting the localised weight.

“She killed her child to save a bus full of people,” Trapper said, emotion choking up his voice as he tried to imagine sacrificing Becky or Kathy’s life to save thirty people, but the enormity of the idea swamped him, his head simply refusing to comprehend the idea.

“It doesn’t matter if she did it to save thirty people or one,” Trapper continued, his eyes meeting Hawkeye’s and he found himself understanding a little more as Hawk held his gaze, a vulnerability replacing his usual bluster. Trap smiled sadly because Hawkeye’s tendency to take the world onto this own shoulders, to assume responsibility for its ills made him one hell of a physician, and one hell of a flawed human being. “It was her choice Hawk,” he observed quietly, amazed at the calmness with which they were discussing this.

“It was the wrong choice,” Hawkeye said flatly, oddly fascinated by the crochet trim on the bedside lamp.

Trapper pondered the point as he walked around the bed, bending to root through his bag. “Was it?” he asked quietly as his fingers closed around a bottle of expensive scotch. Ducking out of the room Trapper grabbed the water glass from the bathroom, giving it a cursory blow before upending the bottle and filling the glass a little over half way. This he handed to Hawkeye who regarded him cautiously but grabbed at the glass with enthusiasm. Trapper raised the bottle and caught Hawkeye’s eyes with his own, holding the gaze as he lifted it to his lips, taking a long, generous slug. Hawkeye’s eyes widened and he followed suit, downing half the glass and regarding the other half with something akin to reverent desire.

“So this is the way we’re going to solve this, huh?” Hawkeye asked, tilting the glass as he stared down at the liquid.

“Never known you without a drink in your hand,” Trapper observed as he took another slug of the bottle.

Hawkeye conceded the point with a wry smile, knocking back the rest of the glass.

“Besides,” Trapper continued as he leant forward and refilled the glass, “I’m getting withdrawal symptoms, I need a little more in my system than two club sodas.”

“Ah, AA,” Hawkeye agreed, “the Alcoholics Association.”

Trapper raised the bottle again and drank deep, his eyes never leaving Hawkeye’s. He gasped as the burn hit the back of his throat and then sank deep into his stomach. “Was it the wrong choice?” he asked again.

Hawkeye flinched a little, unwilling to return to the conversation, suddenly bored by the whole topic wanting nothing more than to forget about it, if only for a while. He downed the second, generous double and dropped the glass to the nightstand.

“No,” he admitted the word slow and thick, easing it’s way into the night.

“Then you’ll find a way to deal with it,” Trapper noted as he ambled toward the bed, sensing the surrender in his friend. Shoving Hawkeye’s legs aside he sat down, the bottle still held in his right hand. Hawkeye automatically replaced his legs, draping them over Trapper’s knees, their weight warm and familiar.

“We’ll find a way to deal with it,” Trapper dared as he took another sip of the bottle. Hawkeye glanced down at him, his eyes narrowing before he slumped down further, his ass bumping against Trapper’s thigh. One arm rested against the blanket, the other thrown over his eyes.

“I’m kind of glad she did,” Trapper continued quietly, his eyes slipping away from Hawkeye’s body, not quite able to admit the full truth of what he was saying.

“No Trap,” Hawkeye breathed.

“I am,” Trapper retorted, “because you’re alive and that’s very important to me.” 

He pushed a hand toward Hawkeye’s, his fingers slipping over Hawkeye’s own, rising up and over his knuckles, tracing the line of a prominent vein.

“You’re not divorced,” Hawk said quietly, his other arm dropping away, eyes seeking out Trapper’s, testing the waters beneath them, drawing them back to the conversation of earlier.

“I was never divorced,” Trapper noted.

“You weren’t always living in Portland,” Hawkeye objected.

“You want me divorced?” Trapper dared, the question surprising even him, causing the air around them to hang heavy and thick.

Hawkeye drew in a sharp, quick breath that was almost a gasp but didn’t drop his gaze. His heart was hammering against his chest, butterflies back flipping through his stomach and this time he had the courage to reach out and take what he wanted. “Yeah,” he said.

Suddenly restless he uncoiled himself from the bed and walked toward the small window. The curtains were still drawn from earlier and he peeled one back, reaching for the clasp and pushing open the window. The night spilled into the room and Hawkeye took in a long breath, the chilled air feeling pure and clean after three years of moist, humid summers and damp, dreadful winters. Trapper crossed the room, coming to stand behind him, hands moving to grip his waist, sliding a path around his body. Hawkeye dropped the curtain, the fabric shivering as it fell back into place. Hawk felt his body replicate the movement, a low thrill moving through him as Trapper’s chin came to rest against his shoulder and he realised this was perhaps the most intimate moment they’d ever shared.

Outside a truck thundered past, the walls reverberating with the force of it, and Trapper twitched the curtain open again, letting them stare into the night, both men drawn to the glide of lights out on the highway.

Trapper’s legs shifted against him and Hawk felt the press of his cock; the organ hardening slowly, gently against his flesh.

“Why didn’t you write,” Hawkeye asked, his voice a little dreamy, the alcohol beginning to ease his senses.

Trapper sighed at the question, and for the first time in all the months they’d been apart he let himself feel. Let himself remember how from the moment he’d left, he’d missed Hawkeye, rattling and rolling out of camp in a mud caked jeep. Missed the quicksilver mind and the tongue that was often a little too raw, a little too close to the line but knew just how to make him whimper. If he thought hard enough he could probably remember the letter he’d spent the journey home constructing. Only when he landed and walked out of air transport into a sweet San Francisco evening he’d taken a stroll through a park, keen to enjoy the moment. And there, chatting away on a bench had been a couple of old vets, insignia still pinned to their civvies, their faces ruddy, skin yellow; their whole futures held hostage to the past. And in that instant he’d known he couldn’t hold onto Hawkeye; couldn’t turn his back on the life he’d built for the memory of Hawkeye’s lips. Couldn’t live out the rest of the war on the hope that something born in clay and dust could find form in the real world.

“Couldn’t,” he said out loud, aware that the word was hardly an explanation. Unwinding his arms he walked back toward the bed, retrieving his bottle from the nightstand, pouring Hawkeye another drink before taking a slug of his own, sitting back down on the bed. Hawkeye retrieved his glass, walking to the far wall, leaning back against it and letting it support his weight.

Trapper glanced upward, his eyes seeking out Hawkeye’s, “I mean, do you have any idea what’s going on here?” he asked a little desperately, uncertainty suddenly filling him as he contemplated a life lived half in shadow, the thought of his girls and his wife and his job a sudden and unwelcome weight.

“Sure,” Hawkeye agreed as he sipped at his drink, seeing no need to get any more drunk, content to enjoy the pleasant buzz that had settled over his body, “I’m contemplating taking you home and never letting you out of my sight again.”

“I’m serious,” Trapper objected, struggling to remember his point as Hawkeye’s words flowed over him, a surge of belonging breaking through him. 

“So am I,” Hawkeye agreed, leaning his body against the door jamb, thrilled as Trapper’s eyes traced its length, seemingly unable to control the impulse.

“Hawk we’re talking about giving up everything,” Trapper said.

Hawkeye considered the point and shook his head lightly, “you are,” he pointed out calmly.

“Yeah,” Trapper noted ruefully, his head falling back against the headboard, “maybe that was a bit dramatic,” he conceded. “I missed you; wanted you,” he admitted, “but…” He trailed off, sighing in frustration. “It’s a big ask Hawk,” he said, his voice stronger as he began afresh, “and I didn’t know how you felt, not really, things get screwed in a place like that. Could still be screwed,” he realised in a rush, his eyes wide, worried. 

Hawkeye shook his head slowly, “some things you know even when your mind takes a holiday,” he said quietly, staring over at Trapper, watching as his words sunk into Trapper, their realisation dawning in his face, his eyes slipping shut a moment later.

“God,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed, a solemnity to his voice. “You still could have written,” he added.

“No,” Trapper said again, his tone firmer, surer, clearer. “For the last year and half I’ve done things, been places. I had to live my life, Hawk,” he said.

“But you’re still living in Portland,” Hawkeye pointed out.

“So I’m an idiot,” Trapper agreed with a wry smile, “with a very intelligent subconscious.”

Hawkeye smiled back at him, his blue eyes soft. Turning away he moved to close the window, leaving his half filled glass on the narrow sill as he approached the bed. “My kind of an idiot,” he said, his tone as mellow as his eyes, and yet he strengthened the first word, possession stalking through the sentence.

Coming to kneel on the bed he straddled Trapper who regarded him with amusement, “hey,” he offered as Hawkeye’s hands dropped to his chest.

“Hello,” Hawkeye agreed, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Trapper lifted a hand to his face, pushing the long strands of hair away from his forehead, stroking though the fine mass. They watched each other for several minutes, content in their companionship.

“Gonna keep working in Portland?” Hawkeye asked.

Trapper nodded a little wary of the question, any alternative never having occurred to him. “I enjoy the job,” he said, “got a good team. Even trained up a few nurses to help with the simpler cases, took a while to get that idea accepted,” he added with a huff of not quite laughter.

Hawk smiled too, though he dropped his eyes, fingers toying with the buttons on Trapper’s shirt. “Portland’s not too far from Crabapple Cove,” he offered, “commutable.” His eyes flickered upward again, a coy, almost shy look on his face and there was no mistaking the comment for what it was.

Trapper smiled at sheer breathtakingly inappropriate nature of offer, the idea so like Hawkeye who knew only full-speed ahead and damn the consequence. Yet sadness graced the edges of his smile, as he realised he really was going to have to find a way to balance his girls and Hawkeye; Hawkeye who gave everything and demanded nothing less.

“We know we can live with each other, let’s wait and see if we can live with the world,” he offered quietly, lifting a hand to touch Hawkeye’s face, knuckles tracing over his cheek, softening the impact of his refusal.

Hawkeye nodded and though he tried to hide it the sting of the disappointment showed on his face.

“One day,” Trapper said. “Soon,” he added as Hawkeye’s eyes slid back to his. He nodded quickly, emphasising his offer, and as an unmistakable hope flickered through Hawk and Trapper was suddenly all too aware of what the war had done to Hawkeye, stripping his world away and leaving him doubting and vulnerable.

“Gonna hold you to that,” Hawkeye said, a single raised eyebrow the only sign of censure.

“Gonna hold you to holding me to that,” Trapper agreed, his fingers stroking delicately along the expanse of Hawkeye’s arm. The touch was light and quick, leaving Hawkeye shivering in its wake. His breathing quickened and he returned his fingers to Trapper’s buttons, unpopping each with a deft touch. Shoving the fabric aside he returned his hands to Trapper’s chest, mirroring Trapper’s touch, fingers tracing the curve of muscle, the ripple of his ribs. Trapper glanced up at him, trying to catch his eyes, but Hawk seemed mesmerised by his actions, focussed only on the path he was taking across Trapper’s skin, carefully avoiding the more sensitive areas, keen to touch and caress, a little overwhelmed by the reality of Trapper, open and willing beneath him.

His hands drifted toward Trap’s stomach, once again intrigued by its gentle swell, following the contours as they flowed up and down, remembering the way Trap’s body had begun to sink in on itself the longer he remained in Korea; the way his own body was now; a literal reminder of the way war preyed on a man.

Beneath him Trapper squirmed as his fingers grazed along the underside of his ribs and Hawkeye suppressed a smile as he let his fingers wander upward and then along the curve of Trapper’s chest, idly circling inward toward the proud nub of nipple before retreating. Trap squirmed again, shoulders pushed back into the mattress as he arched toward Hawkeye’s touch.

“Okay there?” Hawk asked, unable to stop a grin showing on his face.

Trapper raised an eyebrow and linked his arms behind his head, the picture of perfect insouciance. “Gonna kiss me?” he asked blandly, a cheeky grin of his own, the words a dare, an attempt to goad Hawkeye into action.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye agreed, nodding slowly, not taking the bait, enjoying the teasing too much. Shoving the shirt further back, the fabric stretching a tight line across Trapper’s arms and neck Hawkeye ghosted his fingertips across Trapper’s shoulder, skimming across the soft skin of his underarm, the movement eliciting a low murmur as Trapper arched against the touch.

Hawkeye grinned, pleased to gained such a reaction and dropped a quick, brief kiss to same area, his lips gone before Trapper truly had time to process the moment.

“Not what I meant,” Trapper objected with a grin.

Hawkeye shrugged and stopped his ministrations, taking the moment to remove his own shirt, by the simple method of tugging it over his head, hem first. “Then perhaps you need to improve your specificity,” he suggested with a grin of his own as he balled the fabric, rising up on his knees as he tossed it to the other side of the room.

“Bloody hell,” Trapper muttered as he took in the sight of Hawk raised up before him, stretched out in perfect tableau. Heat coiled through him, the kind of full body shock that all the way back in Korea had told him he wasn’t only interested in Hawkeye’s mind. Wrapping his legs around Hawkeye’s Trapper gripped his shoulders and turned him deftly, if not gently, into the nest of untidy blankets and sheets, tired of waiting.

“No patience,” Hawkeye said censoriously as he grinned up at Trap, his dark hair fanning out around him.

“Plenty of patients,” Trapper corrected as he settled himself on his arms, lowering his face to Hawkeye’s, “I have an ER full of patients,” he added, his voice dropping to barely a whisper as his lips grazed Hawkeye’s. Hawk’s outer lips were rough, the skin chapped and dry and Trapper ran his tongue along their edge, just the tip trailing, teasing, anticipating.

Hawkeye’s breathing was rapid and his own was little better, each eagerly anticipating the first touch of a deeper softness. Hawk’s tongue flickered outward, connecting with his own in the space between their mouths and Trapper gasped at the touch, the need for more rolling up through his body. Pressing downward he pushed his lips to Hawkeye’s, opening his mouth, the action lacking any kind of finesse, though Hawkeye’s answering groan suggested he couldn’t have cared less. The sweetness of liquor still lingered in Hawk’s mouth and Trapper chased after the taste, his tongue swirling across teeth, palate, gums, his arousal growing as Hawk bucked and squirmed beneath him. He could feel the flush of his own cheeks and that heat rose steadily though his body until his clothes felt more than restrictive. Shrugging off his shift he let it fall to the bed before reaching for his own fly, then Hawkeye’s, loosening the buttons, easing the fabric away from their hardening cocks, lessening the uncomfortable pressure. Dropping to his side he settled comfortably on the mattress, drawing Hawkeye to him, reaching for his lips again. Hawkeye willingly followed the direction, pressing himself against Trap, content for the moment to do nothing more than re-learn the taste and feel of the body beside his own, eager to know if the pulse point of his neck was still an erogenous zone, if Trap still reared upward at the feel of nails running across his scalp. And Trapper’s own exploration was just as thorough, small gasps and moans escaping him as Trap’s fingers gently massaged their way down his spine, his mouth suckling at his neck, his arousal growing steadily until his body was humming with a hazy heat, sweat beginning to form on his skin, Trap’s tongue eking out the taste. 

“We keeping our pants on?” Hawkeye asked after several more minutes, pausing to suck on Trapper’s bottom lip, the words mumbled against his skin.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Trapper confirmed, suckling lightly at the underside of Hawkeye’s chin.

“Good,” Hawkeye agreed as he arched into the touch, “what’s it going to take to get them off you?” he asked.

“Not much,” Trapper suggested as he dipped his head, planting firm kisses along the line of his neck and shoulder.

“How about the offer of a night of passionate sex?” Hawkeye offered.

“I’ve dropped my pants for pretty lousy sex,” Trapper admitted as he pulled away for a moment and grinned across at Hawkeye.

“I’ll bear it mind,” Hawkeye mumbled as he reached for another kiss, the moment stretching out between them, neither seeming willing to break the contact. 

Hawkeye’s hands slid to the waistband of Trapper’s pants, fingers slipping behind and beneath, easing the fabric away as he stroked the skin within, Trap’s muscles tensing at his touch as he began to lower his pants. Trapper deepened their kiss, moaning in approval, a hand winding through Hawk’s hair as he lifted up his hip, encouraging the movement. Hawk smiled into the kiss as he continued, his touch deliberately, agonisingly slow as he worked the fabric to the end of his reach. Pulling his lips away, offering up a brief, apologetic kiss Hawkeye wriggled down the bed, easing the garment lower, his fingers grazing Trapper’s skin as it was slowly revealed, hips, thighs, knees, ankles. Pausing at the bottom of the bed he glanced up the long line of Trapper’s body and drew in a long, low breath, entranced by the acres of skin laid out before him and he was struck again by the overwhelming reality of Trapper, sure and real and here. His tongue darted out to wet suddenly dry lips, unsure what to touch, lick and kiss first. 

Trap grinned down at him, a knowing look on his face as he spread his legs, desire making him utterly unashamed. The underside of his foot lay exposed and Hawkeye lifted a single finger, drawing it along the sole, tracing the calloused heel and softer arch. Trapper shivered at the touch, a ripple running up his body and Hawkeye repeated the gesture as he raised himself to his hands and knees, beginning a slow meander back up Trapper’s body, kissing any skin he could find. Trap was warm beneath him, heat radiating up from his skin, a deep, ruddy flush creeping over his body, the colour offering an odd kind of beauty. Reaching Trapper’s groin he turned his head and pressed his lips to Trap’s cock, sliding up along its underside. An earthy, damp musk coiled around him, the scent familiar, memory and moment colliding with an intensity that made his head spin and his eyes flickered shut for just a moment.

“You’re gorgeous,” Hawk whispered roughly as he crawled back up the bed, reaching for Trapper’s mouth with a fierceness that surprised him, wanting to please, wanting to give Trap all he needed. Trap gasped into his kiss, the brief, fleeing touch of Hawk’s lips on his sensitive flesh had shut down most thought and he pressed himself close, winding his body around Hawkeye’s, needing to touch, to have, to take. He moaned in frustration as his legs encountered the cotton of Hawk’s pants and he grabbed impatiently at their tops, trying to shove them downward.

“Come on,” he said fervently as they refused to yield to his demands.

Hawkeye chuckled a little, easing himself free and lifting his hips he wriggled out his pants with a quick shimmer. He dropped to the bed, falling onto his back and glancing over at Trapper grinned as he caught his eye. “Socks on or off?” Hawkeye pondered, staring down the line of his own body, wiggling his toes.

Trapper growled and reached downward, making a long arm grab for the offending items, tossing them to the floor.

“Okay, off,” Hawkeye agreed easily, mirth dancing in his eyes, aware of Trapper’s arousal but quite unable to hold off on the teasing.

Dropping his head Trapper exacted revenge, nipping at Hawk’s wrist as he passed. But his touch was light and his tongue darted forward, soft and generous, lapping at the skin with more than just a soothing touch, working his way up Hawkeye’s arm and along the line of his clavicle, short, quick little kisses that grew more frenetic as he reached once again for Hawkeye’s mouth, twisting his head, the angle than a little awkward. Moaning into the kiss Hawkeye took pity on Trapper and moved over him, settling between his legs, lowering his body inch by inch, continuing forward until they were splayed against each other. Hawkeye dropped his head to Trapper’s shoulder, pressing himself against his neck, breathing deeply, taking time to enjoy the moment, a little amazed that after all their previous times together such a simple contact could feel new and wondrous. Trapper’s hands came up to stroke at his back, sliding around to his shoulders, urging him up. Hawkeye followed the pressure, resting his weight on his hands as he raised his head to stare down at his lover. Catching those brown eyes he offered a slow, gentle smile, and for a moment they remained still, the moment of contentment spiralling out between them. 

“You are gorgeous,” Hawkeye said again, his voice stronger this time. 

Trap’s eyes fell shut and he squeezed Hawkeye’s shoulder, “not so dusty yourself,” he offered quietly.

Hawk smiled, his eyes slipping shut and he bent to kiss Trap, meaning the touch to be slow and easy. But as he lowered himself down, aligning himself to the contours of his friend, his hip bumped up against Trapper’s cock and Trap moaned into his mouth, pushing up against him, kissing with a messy fervour. Hawkeye shrugged and responded willingly to the return to their previous pace, slipping his tongue into Trapper’s mouth, taking command of the kiss as Trapper shifted against him, beginning to thrust up into the hollow of his hip, groaning at the lack of friction. Understanding the frustration Hawkeye pulled away a little, swallowing down Trapper’s instinctive protest and easing a hand between their bodies, reaching for his hardened flesh. 

“You’re keen,” Hawkeye grinned as a shudder of relief arched through Trapper’s body. He wrapped his hand around the organ, ringing it loosely, pumping up and down slowly, “very keen,” he commented approvingly.

“Fine I’m keen,” Trapper agreed roughly as he surged into the touch, his body so damn thrilled to have something other than his own hand giving him relief; his mind so damn thrilled that it was Hawkeye touching him. “Just get on with it would you?” he insisted.

“Last of the great romantics,” Hawk grumbled as he obeyed the instruction, releasing his grip with a final, apologetic pat before sliding back down Trapper’s body, dotting brief, fleeting kisses along his chest and stomach.

“I’ll buy you flowers on your birthday,” Trapper promised breathlessly as the thought, ‘that wasn’t quite what I meant’ flowed across his mind, forgotten as soon as it was realised, his body tensing in anticipation of a more intimate touch. Hawk’s breath flowed over him, a teasing, taunting hint of a deeper, wetter warmth.

“I want lilies,” Hawkeye demanded as he paused, knowing full well he was speaking to himself, Trap’s mind most certainly anywhere but gardening, “or African violets; I’m an expensive kind of a guy,” he added. The air between them was charged and pulsing as he dipping his head, closing the final distance.

“Oh fuck,” Trapper managed as Hawkeye at last closed his lips around the tip, his hand gripping at the shaft, jerking him roughly as his talented tongue swirled and coiled around the head, teasing along the slit, spreading precome until it was indistinguishable from Hawkeye’s own fluids.

Trapper arched into the touch, his mind finally letting go as he gave himself over to pleasure, hips jerking roughly, pushing and pressing more of himself into the wonderfully damp heat of Hawkeye’s mouth, seeking out that blinding, final sensation. Hawk’s free arm coiled around his hips, pressing him against the mattress even as he obeyed the hint, sucking downward, tongue darting out to tease at the sensitive vein. Trap dropped a hand to his shoulder, fingers skimming lightly over the skin. Hawk’s eyes flickered open and he glanced upward, catching Trapper’s eyes, apology and understanding flowing between them.

Trapper shuddered as he held Hawkeye’s gaze, the blue, deep eyes, the dark head bobbing in his lap, the feel of mouth and tongue and heat surged over him, coiling into a powerful wave of emotion and he bit back the words of devotion that flowed unbidden to his lips. Beneath him Hawk’s eyes glowed with a fierceness that told of understanding and Trap’s lids slid shut, unable to process the intensity in Hawk’s gaze as he surged higher, belonging and need and lust and love rushing around his mind and body, no one thought able to take root, hovering on the edge of a purer pleasure. His hand on Hawk’s shoulder tightened in feeble warning but Hawk shrugged off the touch, instead increasing the pressure of his mouth and hand, encouraging the inevitable. Trapper whimpered at the contact, tensing further as he struggled against the press of Hawk’s arm, his body urging him upward, urging him to thrust and take and claim, his thighs trembling with the effort, vaguely aware that Hawk was struggling to follow his undulations, not quite able to find the motivation to care about anything but the white heat that was crawling along his spine. And then suddenly he was there, relief and pleasure blinding him as he surged through his climax, grunting as he spurted into Hawk’s mouth, smaller bursts escaping him as he sank back into the bed, Hawk finally releasing him.

Lifting his shoulders Trap reached for Hawkeye, hauling him upward, mashing them together in an untidy arrangement of limbs and hands and fingers as they rested against each other, breathing heavily into the night.

“Well at least that’s some protein,” Trapper observed after several moments, still a little breathless as his fingers brushed against Hawk’s flushed cheek.

Hawkeye stared at him for a moment and then his face creased with amusement and he collapsed back onto the bed, his body shaking with laughter, the remark striking him as supremely funny. Trapper regarded him bemusedly before Hawkeye’s joy became infectious and he joined in, falling forward, half covering Hawkeye’s body. Hawk’s hands came up to hold him, rocking them together, supremely satisfied in his world; Trap in his arms, a smile on his lips and laughter ringing in his ears. And skin. Lots of skin, pressing and sliding against his own.

He sighed as their eyes met, the bubbling joy so, so evident and Hawkeye pressed a kiss to Trapper’s nose, then lips, then chin. Trapper chuckled, the sound vibrating against Hawkeye’s lips and he dipped lower, sucking lightly at the line of Trapper’s throat, swirling his tongue around his Adam’s apple. Trapper sighed at the contact, his body sagging into the bed. Rolling over Hawkeye tipped Trapper onto his back, and shifted over him, slipping a knee between Trapper’s legs as he offered up more playful kisses, attacking ears, forehead, cheeks as it became a game as to who could actually catch the lips of the other. Hawkeye cupped a hand around Trapper’s head, ceasing his quick, clever squirming, pleased that Trapper submitted to the touch, holing still as Hawkeye dipped to kiss him. He moaned into the kiss, his lips opening beneath Hawkeye’s, tongue stroking forward to touch Hawkeye’s own, a lingering, sensual caress that they’d rarely had the liberty to enjoy. The playful mood quickly gave way to something deeper and Hawkeye let himself fall forward, pressing himself tight against Trapper, the position rapidly becoming a firm favourite.

Trapper’s hands came up to stroke his shoulders, his touches growing stronger as he recovered from his own climax, the lethargy falling away from him as he remembered Hawkeye’s own need.

They broke away, both breathless again, panting into the space between their mouths. Trapper’s face was half in shadow, but his eyes were close enough that Hawkeye could read every expression that flowed through them, the desire, raw and rough in its need. Loath to stop touching Hawkeye dotted kisses along his cheekbone, Trapper humming out his approval.

“Tell me what you want,” Trapper insisted roughly as Hawkeye bit down gently on his collarbone. Pulling away for a moment Hawkeye looked down at Trapper, catching those eyes with his own once again, his pupils dilated to near black, as the thought of having Trapper bend to his will aroused him to near fever pitch. An image of Trapper splayed out before him, the long expanse of his back, body open and willing sprang unbidden to his mind. His cock twitched against Trapper’s leg and he thrust upward, blindly seeking some form of relief, his eyes shuddering closed.

“Suck me,” he commanded shakily.

“Sure?” Trapper asked as they rolled together, Hawkeye settling on his back, Trapper towering over him. Hawkeye’s heart gave a leap and he swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth, the sight of Trap, large and looming and powerful above him affecting him in a way he’d never guessed it could. Another set of images rushed into his head, only this time it was him pressed hard into the mattress, Trap’s weight bearing down on him, pushing the air from his lungs.

“Christ yes,” Hawkeye said fervently, at once answering the earlier question and offering a commentary on the images in his mind.

Trapper’s lips closed softly over his own and Hawkeye was glad of the contact, glad to feel the warm, wet reality of his lover. He was just beginning to respond to the touch when Trapper’s lips left his, pressing a kiss to his chin, then his sternum. He gasped as Trap meandered to one side, licking at his nipple, a long, lingering press that had him arching into the touch, desperate for more. Trapper chuckled against his skin, but obliged, moving to his other nipple.

“Like that, huh?” he asked as he pulled back a little, letting his fingers graze the sensitive skin as his eyes found Hawk’s.

“It’s not bad,” Hawkeye agreed, as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, easing himself back until he was half propped up on the pillows, the line of his body long and lean as it stretched out before his lover.

Trapper’s eyes dropped downward, taking in the hollows of Hawk’s body, noting the way the skin was stretched a little too tight against his bones, his frame all refracted angles and planes. Trap’s fingers ghosted across the peak of a hip bone, sadness lingering on his face and for a second Hawkeye’s own expression mirrored that sorrow. He let his hand fall to Trap’s head, his fingers roaming through the curls as he raised an eyebrow “how about we engage in some further study?” he asked, his darkened eyes sparkling at the suggestion.

Trap grinned up at him, the smile full and generous and he pushed himself up the bed to meet Hawk, offering a quick kiss to his lips.

“Could do,” he agreed as he returned to his previous explorations, fingers brushing at a nipple, gratified as Hawk bucked beneath him. He repeated the gesture, before nipping harder, twisting the nub between finger and thumb, thrusting his tongue into Hawk’s mouth as he gasped beneath him, his body momentarily slack with surprise. Though Hawk quickly recovered, pushing back against Trap, his kiss eager, fervent, searching, fingers tightening in Trapper’s hair until the grip was a little painful and his movements were far from their usual skilled co-ordination.

Trapper slowed the kiss, smiling to himself, inordinately pleased that he could have this effect on Hawk; Hawk who slept with anything that caught his eye and seemed to view sex like most people did a Spencer Tracy film, as a pleasant enough distraction for an evening or two. And yet here he was, arching and bucking beneath him, small gasps escaping from between damp, swollen lips as Trap’s hands swept across his body, touching, teasing, urging him higher. Releasing his lips Trap grinned as Hawk groaned in frustration and squirmed, thrusting up against his leg. Trap followed the move, rubbing himself against Hawk, adding to the friction. Pressing a quick kiss to his lips he slid gracefully down the line of Hawk’s body, pausing to take in the sight of Hawk splayed out before him, his cock twitching to the pulse of blood which darkened the organ, the doctor in him momentarily fascinated anew by the human body.

“Enjoying the view?” Hawk demanded breathlessly.

Trapper reached out a hand, running his fingers along the sensitive flesh of Hawk’s inner thigh, “I was actually,” he agreed as he continued forward, rubbing lightly at Hawk’s balls, “and now I’m going to enjoy the taste,” he noted as he dipped his head and took Hawk into his mouth.

Hawk sighed as he did so, his hands falling back to Trap’s head, needing something, anything to hold onto as he was engulfed by the wonderful warm, wet heat. The touch of Trap’s tongue was firm and his hands were a little rough, just the way he enjoyed it, full and hard and real. His skin was quickly fizzing with pleasure, the heat seeming to roll of him in waves and he knew he wasn’t going to last long, not here, not now, not with Trap. Not with those skilled fingers running over each bit of skin they could find, a frenetic, furious touch that had every nerve ending in his body sparking, anticipating and demanding pleasure. Not with Trap humming around him, low, earthy vibrations that echoed outward, looping up through him, pushing out the world, until the only sound in his head was Trap and the rapid, relentless hammering of his heart.

He cried out as he came, spilling himself into Trapper’s mouth, not bothered by the thin walls, caring only that Trap should hear his joy as he shivered through his climax. He thrust a hand downward, dragging Trapper upward as his fingers closed around sweat slicked skin, craving the feel of Trap’s mouth against his own. Moaning out his approval Hawk thrust his tongue thrust deep into Trapper’s mouth, taking, holding, savouring. And Trapper seemed to understand the desire, returning his kisses with equal fervour, winding a hand down between their bodies and gripping Hawkeye loosely, lightly stroking him through the last of his climax until the tension slipped from his body and he slumped back against the blankets.

Trapper fell against him and made to slide off, but Hawk quickly wrapped his arms around Trap, holding him tight. Trap grunted but accepted the touch, balancing his weight against a knee. Gradually Hawkeye stirred and Trapper glanced down at him, smiling softly as he brushed his hand against Hawk’s cheek and settled them side by side.

“Hey,” he offered gently, pressing a kiss to Hawkeye’s hair. Hawkeye shivered and pressed himself closer, burrowing into Trapper’s arms, his face pushed hard against the join of neck and shoulder, still trembling lightly in his lover’s arms. Kicking the sheet upward Trapper made a long armed grab for it and pulled it over their cooling bodies. Gradually Hawkeye’s shivering ceased and Trapper loosened his arms. The movement drew a grunt of protest from Hawk and he eased an arm free, winding it around Trapper’s waist and pulling him close again.

“Okay,” Trap agreed easily as he tightened his embrace, a little unused to this side of Hawkeye, but finding the vulnerability a pleasing counterpoint to his usual and obvious hedonism.

Hawk hummed in contentment as he settled more comfortably on the bed, squirreling himself against the heat of Trapper, easing into his contours. He drew in a long breath, letting it out again in a gentle sigh as languor eased its way into his limbs, a sure, steady warmth settling over him; sure in the knowledge he never again wanted to elsewhere. Sure in this love.

“Trap…?” Hawkeye asked, pulling away from the shelter of Trapper’s chest, staring across into his eyes, needing to share this moment. Trapper returned his look, holding his eyes, the quick quirk of a single eyebrow his only movement.

Hawkeye opened his mouth and then shut it again, the words in his mind, the fullness of his heart failing to find form on his lips. Instead he squeezed Trap’s hip, the gesture seeming brief, paltry. Yet Trapper found himself nodding, agreeing wholeheartedly with the silent exchange that passed between them, a soft, tender smile on his face as he reached out to cup Hawkeye’s cheek, his thumb stroking across the line of his cheekbone.

“Oh, Hawk,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to his forehead, holding him close once again, feeling the slowing rise and fall of Hawk’s chest even as his own arms grew limp, slumber gradually claiming them both.

Hawkeye awoke a couple of hours later, a growing pressure in his bladder pulling him from sleep. He stretched out his body, toes wriggling against the blanket as he basked in the warmth and heat that coiled around him. A deep sense of contentment soaked into his bones and he carefully ignored the messages of his body, too comfortable to contemplate leaving the bed. 

Trapper’s arm still lay across his waist, the limb heavy and slack in sleep and Hawk smiled to himself, the weight a welcome reminder that Trap was here, with him. Hawkeye rolled onto his back, Trapper’s arm settling over his stomach and he ran his fingers along it’s length, the need to touch, to have, to hold not lessening just because Trap was unconscious. 

In sleep Trapper’s head had fallen forward until he was half resting against Hawk’s pillow, his nose burrowed into its feather filling. Hawk cocked his head and started out into the inky darkness, smiling as he contemplated his lover. He lifted his hand, brushing the dirty blond curls with a tender touch. The faint scent of carbolic still clung to the locks and he drew in a long breath, holding the scent within him. Shifting forward he eased himself across the tiny space between their bodies until their heads lay against each other and he closed his eyes, slowing his breathing, willing himself back to sleep. Yet the fullness in his bladder only increased and with a sigh he lifted Trapper’s arm slowly, carefully, rolling himself free. 

Returning from the bathroom he paused before the bed and glanced around the room, suddenly, jarringly awake. Sleep had all but vanished from him and he felt a restlessness begin to claim him. He padded to the window, tugging back the curtain, glancing out into the courtyard. Away in the east a small strip of silver shimmered along the horizon, the road before it finally quiet. His abandoned drink lay on the sill and Hawk downed it without a second thought. 

He turned back to the bed, staring over at Trapper. The picture of him, calm and tranquil was a half familiar sight and for a moment he was back in Japan, in the noisy, early dawn of a Tokyo day, light bleeding into his eyes as the excesses of the previous night hammered through his skull, Trap lying still and peaceful beside him, blissfully unaware of the new day and their imminent return to camp. Hawk felt his heart rate quicken, the familiar, sickening panic begin to flow up through his chest as he contemplated camp with its tents and mud and lice. Over on the bed Trapper stirred, rolling onto his back with a loud snuffle and Hawk jumped, the sound jolting him out of his memory.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair and wondered quite how he’d survived without Trapper, without something of his own to love, knowing the answer involved a long string of nurses and little guilt when he waved them out of the compound hours or weeks later.

He wandered back to the bed, perching gingerly on the covers, and found himself smiling again as his hand automatically reached out to touch Trapper. His affairs in Korea had been transient little things, places in which to shelter and hide from the world. And their own relationship hadn’t been much more when it started, two friends taking comfort where they could. And yet Hawk now knew that he hadn’t imagined the longing in Trapper’s eyes on those cold winter nights, because Trap had come for him, sought him out, wanted him. 

For a moment Hawk let himself ponder where he would have been if Trap hadn’t met him from the plane. He’d probably have been delivered home on the service bus from Portland, rattling into town with the returning shoppers, making appalling small talk with neighbours, who would never and could never understand, craving nothing more than to sleep for a year. He thought of his old room, little changed since he left for college, childhood toys and books still resting under his bed, his dad rattling around in the room down the corridor.

For an odd, fractured moment there were twin images in his mind, one in which Trap was sat atop the old desk in his room, hair framed in late evening sun; a second in an unknown room, the pair of them sprawled out on a sofa, listening to the radio, sipping at gin and tonics. And with a rush Hawk realised that if they did this, took this path together, life couldn’t ever be the same again. Again the image of his old room sprang to mind, a mixture of longing and loss bursting over.

“Dear dad…” he mused quietly, “did I ever tell you the one about two GI’s and a carafe of moonshine?”

He sighed quietly, dipping to press a quick kiss to Trapper’s hair, accepting the fragile nature of things between them, accepting that their relationship, born in booze and fear and desperation had faltered on the whim of the army and that from here on in it was going to take a lot of effort to keep things even partway normal. 

Outside a single bird began to call out to the morning and Hawk felt himself relax as the day began to leech into the room, a new feeling gradually creeping over him, a slow, dawning realisation that this could be his, each and every day. He felt his heart swell and a sudden need to be close washed over him. Slipping back beneath the covers Hawk pulled the sheet and blanket back over his body. Beside him Trapper stirred.

“Hawk?” he asked groggily.

“I’m here,” Hawkeye reassured him, reaching out a hand to stroke Trapper’s shoulder, “go back to sleep.”

“You okay?” Trapper asked as he raised his head, rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah…” Hawkeye agreed, the word slow, breathed out into the night.

Trapper reached out an arm and snagged Hawkeye’s waist, “come here,” he insisted, drawing them together in the centre of the bed. Hawkeye followed the move, wrapping an arm around Trapper’s shoulders as his head came to rest against his chest, nestled into the crock of an arm.

“I thought this train had gone,” Hawkeye said idly as he stared up at the ceiling, eyes tracking out a pattern in the water stains, “train gone; would you like to hire a bicycle? Please don’t try to board the train at any station further down the line. Ticket not valid.”

Trapper squirmed, glancing up at Hawkeye and took in the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the way his fingers tugged idly at a lose thread on the duvet. He rolled onto his side and pressed a kiss to Hawkeye’s neck before flopping onto his back.

A small smile graced Hawkeye’s face and he closed his eyes, curling himself against Trapper’s side, snuggling deeper as Trapper’s arms automatically came up to embrace him. “Go to sleep Hawk,” he instructed, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Hawkeye observed.

“Early morning,” Trapper corrected firmly.

Hawkeye sighed, shifting his shoulder as he tried to find a comfortable position on the mattress, aware again that he was very awake. Trapper, jostled by the moment rolled his eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to simply close his eyes, hoping that his own stillness would ease Hawk into restfulness. Instead Hawk squirmed again and Trapper sighed, loosening his hold a little.

“Would you stay still?” he asked after several more minutes of restlessness.

Hawk offered up a lusty sigh and drew an idle finger along Trapper’s chest.

“Sorry,” he offered as he rolled over onto his side, Trapper’s arm draped once again over his waist.

Suddenly overly conscious of his body Hawk held himself rigid, aware of every move he made, every twitch of muscle, every catch of breath. His shoulder was itching where the blanket rested against it, and he drew his hand slowly upward, trying not to make any excessive movements as he rubbed at the area.

Behind him Trapper sighed again, “You could go sleep in the bath,” he said, “I’ll even let you take the blankets,” he added generously.

“You’re not in the bath,” Hawkeye objected as he turned around again. And then again. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he concluded, sitting up with a definite jolt. Glancing around the room he reached for his watch, switching on the beside light as he did so. Beside him Trapper made a pained noise and threw an arm over his eyes. “What’s the damage?” he asked a moment later in spite of himself.

“Four-thirty,” Hawk said, a small, instinctive yawn escaping him, his mind automatically objecting to the very idea of a four-thirty am.

Trapper groaned and rolled over, turning away from the light, burying his head beneath the blankets. “Read a book or something,” he suggested, “plot world domination, plan to kill the president just do it quietly would you.”

“And preferably darkly,” he added as an after thought, his voice muffled, frustration clear in his tone.

Hawk glanced over at the lump in the blankets which was Trapper and leant back against the headboard, a hand straying toward the curve of Trapper’s spine, resting comfortably on the bedclothes. The heat from Trap’s body leaked out through the blankets and Hawkeye found himself comforted by the solidity of it.

Trapper’s paperback still sat on his own nightstand and he reached for it, eyeing the cover with a raised eyebrow. A young woman in a red dress seemed to be struggling to get away from a particularly lurid alien and its title hardly inspired more confidence. It didn’t seem particularly suited to Trapper’s tastes, but short of any other entertainment Hawk doggedly worked his way through the first chapter, wincing a little at the fast-paced prosaic style, his mind wandering around other topics as the book failed to hold his interest.

Having thought about home, he found the idea now dominated his mind and he ached to be there, an almost psychical pain settling in this chest. He yearned for the sight of jaunty, brashly coloured houses; yearned to taste salt against his lips as autumnal winds blew the sea inland. He flickered his tongue outward, sighing a little as he encountered nothing but the faint remembrance of scotch. He glanced at his watch and wondered what time was considered too early to turn up at his Dad’s front door, begging for breakfast. He shifted restlessly and sighed loudly, needing to be elsewhere, needing be home. Away to his right the lump in the blankets echoed his sigh and Hawk felt a slight twinge of guilt. He returned to book, careful to hold himself still and quiet.

Eventually Trapper rolled back to the centre of the bed, tossing the blankets off him, his eyes firmly clenched against the weak light of the lamp. “All right, I give up,” he announced, “I’m awake too, I just refuse to open my eyes until at least five o’clock.”

“You’re only five minutes off,” Hawkeye noted as he glanced down at his watch, glad of the distraction from the book.

“See you in five minutes,” Trapper agreed as he settled back down into the mattress.

“You read this?” Hawkeye demanded, waving the book in the air, the pages rippling out with a creaking sound.

“What is it?” Trapper asked without opening his eyes.

“Revenge of the Fifth Dimension,” Hawk said disparagingly as he glanced at its spine.

A smile graced Trapper’s face and he shrugged, the movement causing the bed to rock. “Belongs to an intern at the hospital; insisted I read it.”

“Oh,” Hawk said, the final strand of interest vanishing as he realised that analysing it would tell him nothing more about Trapper. He tossed it back onto the nightstand and glanced down at his watch.

“Three minutes to,” he observed.

“That’s nice,” Trapper agreed.

“You could get up anyway,” Hawkeye pointed out a little petulantly.

“Could,” Trapper agreed, “but I’m not going to. Why don’t you play eye-spy or something,” he suggested.

“You wont open your eyes,” Hawkeye retorted.

“Don’t need to,” Trapper insisted, “let’s see there’s the door, window, walls, floor, glass, bottle, nightstand, book, bed, various items of clothing and any bit of anatomy you happen to remember. Even with that last category it’s a fairly shallow gene pool.” 

“Smartarse,” Hawkeye grumbled as he glanced at his watch again. “Dad’ll be up in an hour,” he noted, that strong, deep sense of longing rolling over him again as he imagined his childhood kitchen, “he’ll read the paper for half an hour and then begin to think about breakfast. Probably feed Madge.”

“Madge?” Trapper asked.

“An old stray tom that lives in one of the disused lighthouses out on the Point.”

“But you called him Madge anyway?” Trapper asked.

“Suited him,” Hawk said distractedly, mind still miles and years away. “If we leave soon we’ll make breakfast,” he continued. “Dad makes a mean eggs Benedict. And we have coffee, proper coffee,” he said reverently. He chuckled to himself, seeing the red enamel percolator sat atop the hot plate, the water hissing and bursting through the grains, its dark, earthy smell seeping through the kitchen. “And there’s always the crossword to do,” he added, enjoying the sensory memory, “the Courier’s is particularly bad. We used to do that every Saturday morning. Apart from Madge dad’s probably been eating alone for a while,” Hawk commented, his words suddenly a little distant. “Unless there’s something he’s not told me,” he added, his tone forcibly bright.

Trapper opened one eye and glanced up at Hawkeye, catching the brittle, remote expression on his face. Opening his second eye he rolled over, sitting up with exaggerated effort, knowing that right now there was only one thing in the world that Hawkeye wanted. And right now that meant there was only one thing in the world he wanted to do. Levering himself out of bed he padded toward the bathroom, pausing as he reached the door. 

“Well you coming or not?” he demanded. “I’m guessing you need a shower, I have bits of you all over me and you can’t be much better,” he pointed out.

A bemused grin settled on Hawkeye’s face as he tossed the covers back and bounded out of bed, crossing the room in three long strides. “Only if you promise to do my back,” he said, snagging a quick kiss as he passed.

Trap grinned and followed after, pouncing on him as the door banged shut behind them, spinning Hawk against the wall, kissing him soundly, slipping his tongue into a willing mouth.

“If I do your back we won’t make breakfast,” he said as he pulled away, trailing his fingers along the base of Hawk’s spine, the shudder it produced proving his statement.

Hawk grimaced but took the point, easing himself from Trapper’s embrace, leaning over to turn on the bath taps, the water sputtering for several seconds before settling into a weak spray. Thrusting a hand under the water Hawk waited for it to warm before stepping into the bath, Trapper following after him. They crowded together at the head of the tub, passing the soap between them, ducking in and out of the paltry spray.

“Feels a bit odd without a partition between us,” Trap observed as he rubbed a lather into his hair, watching with keen interest as Hawk’s hands slid over his own body, applying and rinsing soap away from his limbs.

“Yeah,” Hawk agreed, catching the appraisal, “but at least we know no one else is going to come barging in,” he pointed out. “And besides,” he continued with a lascivious grin, his hands gripping Trapper’s buttocks, “this gives me unrestricted access.”

“I’m not a government building,” Trapper objected as he dipped his head to kiss Hawkeye, letting him take control, feeling the cool press of tiles against his back as Hawk leaned into him. The water flowed down around them, beating out an incessant rhythm on his hair, the soap sliding down around his face, stinging his eyes, seeping into his mouth.

“Yuck,” Hawk declared as he pulled away, rubbing briefly at his mouth, “I don’t think I like you clean,” he observed as he tipped his head upward, rinsing the taste of soap out his mouth.

“Well get used to it,” Trapper advised as he levered himself upward, rinsing the final suds away from his hair and body, “the rest of the world doesn’t like me dirty.”

“I never did like them,” Hawk said as they stood together for a moment, water still dripping down around them. Trapper offered up a quick grin and Hawk returned it, pressing a quick, final kiss to his lips. Reaching down Trap turned off the taps before drawing the shower curtain back, the pair of them tumbling out into the small bathroom. Trap grabbed at the towels, tossing one toward Hawkeye and taking the other for himself, rubbing himself down vigorously.

Hawk mirrored his actions and soon he was dry, towelling his hair as he walked back into the bedroom. He tossed the towel onto the bed and searched through his pack for clean underwear. His pants were still beside the bed and a quick search revealed his shirt against the far wall. He picked it up with a grin, shaking it out as best he could.

“It’s had it,” came Trapper’s verdict from across the room, “the only thing that could possibly save it is mouth to mouth resuscitation from a laundress.”

“The army didn’t give me one,” Hawk said, “and I did ask. Or was it an air hostess I wanted…” he mused.

“Well don’t look at me,” Trap objected with a brief smile, “there’s not room in my bag for either of them.”

“Oh well,” Hawk said resignedly as he donned the creased garment, “it gave its life in noble pursuit.”

Trapper snorted, “of what?” he demanded, pulling on his own pants and shirt.

Hawkeye paused and raised an eyebrow, “congress?” he offered weakly.

Trapper laughed out loud, “ah if only that was the way you gained high office,” he noted as he fished through his back pocket for his wallet, “we’d be president.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Hawk said with a shudder, “far too much responsibility.”

Trapper shrugged as he snagged his jacket from the back of the chair, “but think of the chaos you could cause,” he offered, “you could replace the city water department with the city martini department; offer free olives with every gasoline sale; ban clothes in the operating room.”

Hawk contemplated the point for a moment, but wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Wouldn’t work, there’d be some kind of uprising. The Puritans are organised you know,” he added with a deeply solemn expression.

“Yeah, Trap agreed as he donned the jacket, “I’ve heard that.” He turned away from Hawk, tugging open the door. The morning was crisp, and cool air billowed in through the opening. Dew was sparkling in the grass and Trapper glanced around contentedly, shoving his hands into his pockets, whistling lightly as he stepped outside and sauntered toward the reception.

Hawkeye watched him leave, leaning against the door jamb, listening as the whistling faded into the morning, drowned out by the first stirrings of trucks on the highway. Turning back into the room he tossed their assembled belongings into the two bags, not overly bothered by whose clothing landed where. He leaned back on his haunches for a moment and wondered if this was going to be how it was from now on. The two them, merging into each other, flowing together, what was good for one being good for both. Drawing the string on his pack he heaved both bags onto his shoulder and snagged the car keys from where Trap had left them. The easy trust between them struck him and he couldn’t help but smile as he wandered out toward the car. Shoving open the trunk he tossed the bags into the space and then slammed it closed, his fingers running over the dented metal. 

He headed back into the room, tossing a quick glance around its interior, checking for anything he might have missed, letting his gaze linger for a moment, taking a final look at the place. Then with a shake of his head and a brief, self deprecating chuckle he shut the door and ambled back to the car, resting against the trunk, watching as Trap emerged from the office and made his way back toward him.

Fishing the keys out of his pocket Hawkeye tossed them over as Trapper approached.

“Packed?” Trapper asked as he caught the keys and threw them straight back. 

Hawk nodded but raised an eyebrow in question.

“You know where we’re going,” Trapper said with a shrug as he walked to the passenger side, slipping into the seat.

Hawkeye drew in a long, low breath and remained still. Above him birds were chirping in the trees the lined the highway, the sound shrill and subtly different from Korean mornings. And this was the way it was going to be from here on in; mornings, days, Trap.

After several minutes Trapper poked his head out of the car, “you coming?” he demanded.

Hawk ignored him, glancing upward, tipping his head back as he watched the clouds move in from the coast; rolling and pitching like the sea herself. He thought of his dad and home; of the pool hall and Cal’s bar; of friends and neighbours and would be patients, a litany of shapes and colours and faces that formed his past and might not form the future.

Trapper approached him, glancing around the deserted forecourt as he did so, trusting that the hour was too early for any causal eyes to notice them. He stilled and touched his fingers to Hawkeye’s waist, the touch gentle and lingering.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Hawkeye said in answer as he drew his eyes back downward, blinking his gaze into focus.

Trap offered up a quick, rueful smile. “Us against them, Hawk,” he pointed out quietly, “us against them.”

“Who ever they are,” Hawkeye agreed as he drew in a long, deep breath, his eyes finding Trapper’s, a hopeful nervousness bubbling beneath the surface as he thought of his dad and his battered copy of the DSM.

Trapper smiled at him, his expression soft and fond. “Just get in the damn car,” he instructed, “I want my breakfast,”

A full, glorious smile broke on Hawkeye’s face and he walked around the vehicle, slipping into his seat, locking down his seat belt as Trap did the same. Then with a quick glance sideways he flared up the engine and they slipped into the damp Maine morning.


End file.
